


Wolves Have Wings, and Sometimes Men are Monsters

by TimeSorceror



Series: Twists of Fate [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Bard!Mollymauk Tealeaf, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, F/F, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hopeful Ending, Mentor Geralt of Rivia, Original Character(s), Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher!Yasha, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 24,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22517863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimeSorceror/pseuds/TimeSorceror
Summary: Yasha, an outcast within her clan for reasons unknown to her, is sixteen when she first meets a Witcher. In the eleven years that follow, she learns much about love and loss, the cruelty of fate, and how not all monsters have teeth. Yasha decides then that if the world wishes to brand her a monster, then perhaps she should simply become one.And so she does... until one day, destiny decides to be unexpectedly kind.
Relationships: Yasha/Zuala (Critical Role)
Series: Twists of Fate [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1620199
Comments: 7
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was an idea born from a conversation I had with some friends in the Widomauk Discord of all places. I wanted to write a series of short stories within the Witcher universe, but with the Mighty Nein in most of the starring roles. After having watched the Netflix series, the idea of Yasha as a Witcher and Mollymauk as her bard was an idea that set my creative spark on fire.
> 
> I did not anticipate word vomiting 24k words into a Google doc over the course of a week and a half, but you know. It just be like that sometimes.
> 
> I also haven't yet read the books (though I want to–it's unfortunate how long the wait times are at my local library for just The Last Wish alone) but I have watched multiple playthroughs of Witcher 3 and decided I had just enough knowledge of the world to make it my sandbox.
> 
> If you enjoy this wild ride of mine, do let me know, and thanks for reading.

Yasha was sixteen when she saw a Witcher for the first time.

Her clan was mostly nomadic, sticking to the wilderness of the Continent and avoiding places with huge populations unless they needed to trade for furs or horses or something of that nature. Their dwellings tended to be tents and carts; whatever was sturdy and mobile and could withstand most kinds of weather. Winter was the only exception to this, as they would spend the season somewhere in the northeastern part of Velen, where it was warmest and mostly out of the way of the swamps to the south. They wintered at a little village that was content to lend the clansmen some cabins as long as they provided some extra protection during their stay and a few furs from the animals their hunters came back with.

It was here in this village that Yasha opened the door to a looming, cloaked figure with the over-bright eyes of an animal set into the face of a man. Any other girl would’ve cowered, but Yasha was a hunter, too. 

“Yes?” She asked the man politely. “May I ask who you are and what it is that you require?”

The man frowned at her. “I’m a Witcher; here to speak with your herbalist. I was told by one of the clan elders that she resides in this cabin.” Yasha tilted her head to study the man. Though he certainly looked dangerous, something in her trusted this man’s words. Eventually, she gave a tight nod and stepped back. Even at sixteen, Yasha was quite tall and nearly as muscled as this Witcher (who she noted carried a large steel sword inscribed with glyphs and embedded runestones) so she felt comfortable enough letting him inside. She closed the door, turned around to face the Witcher, and told him in a soft, firm voice, “My mother is out gathering flowers, but she will be back before nightfall. Perhaps I can answer your questions instead if you are not at liberty to wait?”

She gestured for the Witcher to sit at the plain wooden table and chairs set to the far side of the cabin. He exhaled deeply and pulled back his hood to reveal a shock of hair that was as long and as white as her own, and he took one of the offered seats. 

“I am not terribly pressed for time, but it is imperative that I speak to your mother about the girl who was killed here.”

Ah, Lirene. 

Yasha busied herself with pouring the witcher a cup of tea, which she had brewed only moments ago so it was still warm and steaming. He seemed surprised when she offered him a cup but took it without complaint. 

“You speak of Lirene,” Yasha stated pointedly. “Why do you ask about her?”

“Because she is likely the very same specter that haunts the fields and has been preying upon the village residents.” His sharp gaze caught hers, and there was a weight to it that felt pressingly poignant. “Your clan leaders would like to continue to spend their winters in this place, and so have hired me to deal with it.”

Yasha nodded slowly, trying to process this information.

“Lirene… _is_ … dead, isn’t she?” She didn’t ask this for confirmation, as she knew her mother had seen the body, rather she was hoping the Witcher would elaborate on the nature of this specter. Thankfully, he caught onto what she was after and seemed inclined to indulge her. “She is dead,” he affirmed wearily, “However, something happened to her in life to twist her spirit after death, turning her into this creature. I suspect she is a noonwraith, as she has only been spotted during the day, though I need to know more to confirm this.”

He paused, taking a deep gulp of his tea before giving a somewhat satisfied grunt of appraisal and setting the cup back on the table.

“What will help narrow it down for you?” Yasha queried. The Witcher sat back in his chair, crossing his arms across the front of his worn leather armor, a medallion in the shape of a wolf’s head resting against his chest just above the breastplate. “Only a little information,” he answered cryptically, though continued a beat later with, “Do you know if Lirene was preparing to wed before she died?” 

“She was,” Yasha confirmed, unable to keep the surprise from her voice which seemed to amuse the witcher by the look of the slight twitch of his lips at her reaction. “Is that important, then?” The witcher nodded. “Yes, very.” He hummed thoughtfully. “Her death would’ve had to have been quite sudden and violent. Do you know what happened to her? This is also important, I promise you.” 

“She was hunting with her sister in the fields,” Yasha told him, still studying the witcher intently. “It was night and a good place to track small beasts that hide there from the bigger predators of the forests and swamps. My information is… only secondhand, so likely not as good as going to her sister directly, though I heard her saying something about a hulking figure that surprised her from behind. She woke to find her sister… gone, a trail of blood trailing through the mud. They found her body some distance away… bloody and brutalized was how my mother put it to me later when I asked. Her intended has been incensed about it ever since, and is convinced it was one of the residents of the village.”

The witcher raised a single silver eyebrow at her. “You don’t believe this?” 

Yasha shook her head. “Fenrir is disagreeable at the best of times, and unhealthily furious at his worst. I… personally went out there at night once, because there are some plants that grow there. My mother needed them for a potion, but she was reluctant to go in case it came back.”

“Smart of her,” the witcher quipped, “they are called noonwraiths for a reason but that doesn’t mean they will not show themselves at night. You, on the other hand…”

Yasha shrugged. “I was not about to disobey my mother, and I am smart enough to run from something I cannot hit. A hunter came through the village a fortnight before you and tried to slay her, but his bolts only went right through, he said.” The witcher chuckled, taking another swig of his tea before pulling back and frowning at his presumably empty cup. Yasha took it from him and refilled it, setting it down before him as he watched her intently. “That is a good policy. These creatures and the killing of them is a witcher’s duty, not those of men.”

“And are you not a man?” she asked, to which his lips twitched in another half-smile, this one somewhat bittersweet. “Not quite,” was all he said in response before he prompted her with, “But how is it again that you think what attacked was not one of the villagers?”

“While I was out there, I noticed… prints. They did not appear to be human, and though I am a good tracker, they seemed to disappear into the swamp water and just vanish.”

The witcher leaned against the table and propped his chin on one hand as he studied the grains of the wood in the tabletop. Yasha would have been content to ask more questions of this witcher for some time, but it was then that the door to the cabin opened and her mother entered, ending the conversation and prompting introductions and explanations. It was not long after that the witcher was heading off to his hunting, though before he left he turned to Yasha and bowed his head to her, saying, “Thank you for the tea,” with honest gratitude that was rarely directed at her.

It turned out that Yasha had been correct that it wasn’t one of the villagers who had killed Lirene; just a particularly picky water hag that was nearly the death of Lirene’s intended as well, as the young man had foolishly gone out to seek her killer on his own.

Thankfully the witcher saved him just in time and was able to acquire the necklace for the summoning from Lirene’s sister which she was supposed to have worn to her wedding, though would now never be able to. With the wraith dealt with shortly thereafter, the witcher collected his coin and left, though it would not be the last Yasha saw of witchers, or indeed that one in particular.


	2. Chapter 2

Yasha was twenty when she discovered her wings and fell in love all in the same summer.

She was always the odd one out amongst the hunters, and so she developed a habit of hunting alone. Yasha’s mother tried to encourage her to play with others since she was little, but they always seemed to… avoid her. As though they could sense something was different about her.

If it wasn’t her unusually long white hair, it was probably her eyes, one ice blue, the other a vibrant violet. Her mother’s eyes were the same blue as her right eye, but the violet was… definitely strange. 

Her mother’s apprentice, Zuala, was seemingly the only one who didn’t avoid Yasha. In fact, Zuala made a point to have a conversation with Yasha every time they met, which was baffling, but not entirely unwelcome. It touched a part inside Yasha’s chest that she thought was her heart because something inside her felt as though it were crashing against her skin anytime the other woman would smile at her or hug her without prompting.

That summer Yasha was accompanying Zuala to some of the more dangerous parts of the Redanian mountain range to help her collect some rare ingredients that Yasha’s mother said only grew at such altitudes. Such a trip was too taxing now for the older woman, so it was Zuala’s turn to make the trek instead, though Yasha was thankful the other woman did not have to go alone. Very grateful indeed, for after they found the plants Zuala was looking for, the pair were heading back down a narrow cliff face that left little room for error on the descent.

Zuala, unfortunately, made one such critical error on the stairs carved into the rock, which would have merely had her stumbling against the side of the mountain had it not been for a root growing out of the soil. It changed the direction of her fall and caused her to swing wide, arms flailing. The air was stolen from her lungs so that she could not scream, and she could only stare at Yasha, panicked, as she was launched over the edge of the cliff. 

Yasha gasped and she dove after Zuala without a second thought. 

She quickly grasped Zuala’s hand and pulled the herbalist against her, wondering… now what? Were they meant to just die like this?

That was when she heard a voice rumbling in the back of her head like distant thunder.

_Spread your wings. Fly._

Yasha let go of the tension inside her and gave it all up to faith as sheets of white erupted from her back in a flurry of feathers, bone, and sinew that should’ve felt painful to grow in an instant. However, the weight of the wings settled into her joints as though they had always been there. She gave them a few heavy beats, hoping to slow their descent just as the winds caught the underside of her primaries and brought their terrifying freefall to a gentle glide.

Zuala’s eyes were wide with wonder, and Yasha felt that familiar tug in her chest bloom into a full-on crushing sensation once they safely landed on a wider cliff side further down the mountain. 

“How did– what was– you–!” Zuala spluttered when they pulled apart.

Yasha was silent, still unable to really take in what had just happened. If not for the wings that still sprouted from her back, she would have thought it to be a dream or a nightmare. However upon inspection, the wings moved with her thoughts just like any of her other extremities, and the weight of the feathers was very real in her hands.

“...you’re beautiful,” Zuala breathed at last, which was what finally broke Yasha from her thoughts. She felt her face flush, and she blinked rapidly at the other woman.

“What?”

Zuala sighed and pulled Yasha into an embrace. “I said you’re beautiful, Yasha. Thank you for saving my life.”

And then Yasha felt lips against hers, smitten from that moment onward.

They spent that summer sharing secret kisses and whispered confessions, going on more and more trips for dangerous herbs or flowers just to spend more time together. Yasha’s wings were a fleeting thing that faded when they were not needed, but from that moment on she could always feel them, and knew she could call on them again should she need them.

However, there was one thing that concerned her deeply, especially as both of their twenty-first years were fast approaching. At the turn of the new year, all of the women of the clan who turned twenty-one in that year would go to the matchmaker to learn who their life partner would be, and while you could appeal for a partner of your choice, changes to the matchmaker’s decrees were rarely made. Her word was law.

And Yasha was afraid that she was willing to break that law for her love.


	3. Chapter 3

Yasha was twenty-one when she and Zuala broke that law and fled their clan.

She had known that the clan made their matches out of necessity and that their love was unlikely to be viewed as a necessary reason for changing the mated pairs. However, Yasha had once more been singled out. Zuala was paired with the young man, Fenrir, who would have been wed to Lirene four years prior. That had not set well with either of them, as Yasha had been left off the list of pairs for the coming year.

It wasn’t unprecedented, to not have every eligible man or woman wed after the snows thawed (Fenrir himself had refused to let himself be part of the selection process again until this past spring), but it was odd that Yasha would be without one when that year there was an overabundance of potential mates.

Yasha felt true rage touch her gut for the first time when she learned of this, and while she kept her head long enough to head home without causing a scene, she could not contain it after the door was closed. She’d thrown her sword at the wall, growling when it did not stick in the wood as she had hoped, and it bounced off, clattering to the floor. She did not scream, but fell to her knees and beat at the dirt with her fists until her knuckles were raw. Her body shook, and she could feel the feathers beneath her skin longing to break free and take her far away from there.

She curled up on her bed, sobbing, trying to rub the tears from her face as though doing so would sponge away the soul-deep ache in her heart. That was how her mother found her, hours later when she came back from collecting more thistle and winter berries.

It was nearly dark when the door opened, and Yasha was unable to keep the shuddering sob from escaping her lips as her chest constricted painfully. Her mother was silent as she put her things away until a pressure sat gingerly against the small of Yasha’s back, and a hand began to thread through her thick, white braids. A deep sigh escaped her after a few moments of tense silence.

“Oh, my darling,” her mother crooned gently, “I am so sorry.” There was something to her words; a weight to them that was more than Yasha could comprehend. Yasha rolled over and sat up to look at her mother, determined to figure out why.

“Why, Mama? Why won’t they–?” Her throat caught, and the words wouldn’t come. Her mother, hair dark as pitch falling over her shoulders, met her gaze and held it, kindness and sorrow filling them in equal measure. “I suspect it is my fault,” her mother said, reaching up to stroke the left side of Yasha’s face. “You were… a surprise I could not explain, and that frightened the elders. Frightened everyone of you too, I would guess, though I had thought that at least the children might have some sense to see past the fear of their fathers.”

“Mama…” Yasha gasped, “I have… wings.”

The confession felt light, though it tasted of ash on her tongue. Her mother was… strangely unsurprised by this, however, and merely nodded solemnly before she continued speaking.

“I was so happy that you had found a friend in Zuala. And this past year… I kept hoping that they would see the love you shared. Oh, how I had never seen you smile so much before! I missed your smiles, my darling.” She leaned over and kissed Yasha’s forehead and Yasha leaned into the contact, closing her eyes.

It felt as though all would be right with the world, if only for a moment.

Her mother pulled back, expression stern, and the moment had passed. “Yasha, my darling. There is one thing you can do.” Yasha frowned, pulling her legs underneath her. “What is it, Mama?”

Yasha hadn’t expected her mother’s next words.

“Take Zuala and go. Go as far and as fast as you can. I will say that I sent you on a trip to fetch more Arenaria.”

“Mama!” Yasha hissed, pressing a hand to her mother’s lips. “Mama, do not say such things! The elders will–” Her mother gently removed Yasha’s hand, expression soft yet determined.

“Yasha. I will gladly meet my fate if it means buying you a few years’ worth of happiness. You deserve better than the cruel hand life has dealt you.” Yasha felt her tears begin anew, and her mother simply sat there and brushed them away with her scarf. “What– what do you mean, a few years worth of happiness?”

“Nothing lasts forever, my darling. You might indeed live out your days with Zuala and the clan will be none the wiser, but that kind of thinking only leads to heartache. However much time you and Zuala will be able to share, cherish it. Fold it into your heart of hearts and do not forget it, because sometimes it is hard to remember how to love amidst loss.” She reached up and ran a hand over Yasha’s braids. “I told Zuala to wait for you at the edge of the woods. It is best you do not tarry, my darling.” 

They packed Yasha’s things together; an altogether simple ordeal that was over too quickly.

Yasha stood at the door, sword and bags slung across her shoulder. Her mother pulled her in for one last hug, pressing a whispered, “I love you,” into Yasha’s ear. Yasha blinked back tears, swallowed them, and whispered back, “I love you too, Mama,” before she opened the door and stole into the night.

And that was indeed the last she would ever see her mother, but she took her mother’s advice to heart and cherished every day she had with Zuala.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the fic got super long and spiraled out into something more than just a few short stories about Yasha's journey to becoming a Witcher. 
> 
> For those who like that sort of thing, please listen to the song ["A Nearly Peaceful Place"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g2AKB7g3hr0) from the soundtrack of the Witcher 2 during the burial scene that's maybe... somewhere around halfway through. It's worth it for the extra sad feels.

Yasha was twenty-seven when Zuala’s intended caught up with them.

They were living deep in southern Velen, though still wary of the swamps and what lurked there. They had gone as far south and west as they were comfortable with and had built a tiny cabin by the water that was more than enough for both of them. The people of the village closest to their cabin were kind, and often sent people their way with coin or resources when they needed an herbalist or an experienced hunter.

Six years had passed since they stole away in the night after their request to amend the matchmaker’s decree had gone unheeded and was rejected outright. Six years of happiness, yet those happy days would come to a sudden, abrupt end when Fenrir found them.

Yasha and Zuala were fishing on the edge of the river that morning, none the wiser that the evening would end in tragedy. In fact, after six years, they were finally getting around to actually getting married, not that they’d needed to before, but it would feel nice to be official. Neither had the patience for fishing with a rod and bait and so both were using nets. This typically worked out quite well on such a fine spring day, as Yasha pulled in her bounty with a gleeful grin.

“Oh, that’s quite a good catch!” Zuala praised, causing Yasha’s face to flush with heat. Zuala laughed when she saw the blush and winked at her. “You should take the fish home so we can skin and salt them for some of the villagers. I believe Micah’s young son just adores fish stew!” 

To Yasha’s knowledge, he didn’t.

She shook her head, a fond smile on her face. The net was heavy, so she hoisted it across one shoulder before bending down to kiss Zuala on the cheek. “I love you, Zu. Gods, I can’t wait to be married to you.” Zuala pressed another quick kiss to her other cheek and they nuzzled noses.

“I love you too, Yash. Though it’s not like we needed to be, you know.”

Yasha huffed. “I know. It just… feels good. Right. And to think that the elders wanted to keep this from us.” Yasha stood and shook her head. “Not anymore, my love.” Zuala’s smile softened and she tipped her sunhat in Yasha’s direction. 

“Not anymore,” Zuala echoed. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Yasha flashed Zuala another indulgent grin before she turned around and walked off to their cabin. 

As Yasha walked, the beautiful morning turned to grey, and the feathers underneath her skin began to ache. A storm was approaching, and quickly, as was so common with these spring rains. She would have to make short work of her fish before she went to fetch Zuala. The ominous rain curdled something in her stomach as she worked which made her question whether she was anxious or just hungry. Something was wrong, she just couldn’t figure out what.

She heard the piercing shriek right as she was finishing wrapping up the last of the salted fish.

Yasha’s heart turned to ice.

“Zuala!” She breathed, cursing as she scrambled for her sword and she bolted out the door. 

She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, rain just beginning to sprinkle. It couldn’t have been more than a couple of minutes when she came upon Zuala’s fishing net, no Zuala, and signs of a struggle. Panic filled her mouth in a coppery tang, and she struggled to find a trail to follow. She was frantic as she crossed the river, scanning the bed for anything, any sign Zuala had crossed here or was followed or…

A glint of something caught her eye, and Yasha reached for it, grasping the thing with both hands. 

Sitting on her palm, amongst the mud and silt, was a silver chain Zuala had always worn as an earring.

Yasha looked up, growling. She wasted no time in running upriver along the bank, keeping as much of an eye out for branching tracks as she could. That was when the heavens opened and a torrent of rain began to fall, soaking her to the bone and bleeding the colors of the world around her. There was so little to see with how hard it was coming down, but she had to keep going. She had to find Zuala.

A roar ripped through her, that spark of true rage lighting up her soul from within. Lightning struck close by and it felt as though it had struck her heart and set the dry underbrush of her very being on fire. She ran, feet pounding to the beat of the rain, of her heart. Her eyes caught sight of something red along the other side, smeared along the ground though it was being washed away, and quickly.

Something, or someone, had been drug through the mud and into the fields still full with wild grasses that had yet to be cut down for planting.

“Zuala!” Yasha called out, hoping against hope that Zuala could hear her over the storm. “Zuala, please answer if you can hear me! Please!”

“Zuala is gone, Yasha,” a voice shouted at her from behind.

Yasha’s blood began to boil. She knew that voice.

“Fenrir!” She whirled around, snarling. “Come face me you coward!” 

A man coalesced out of the rain and shadows like mist. Tall, broad-shouldered, with blood covering his clothes and armor that no amount of rain could wash away. His eyes were cold, but not quite emotionless. There was still fight in them. For her.

“What have you done to my Zuala, Fenrir?” She howled, and she could taste the salt of her tears mixed with the rain. Fenrir merely laughed, nearly cackling. “She was never meant to be yours, Yasha! No one was, can’t you see? So I… I did as the elders asked. Tracked you down to… deal with you as you should have been.”

He lunged at her, swinging his sword with the intent to kill.

Yasha raised her sword and the clash of steel could be heard even above the rain. She parried and lunged back, getting in close in order to lock the hilt of her sword against his. He saw her play and stepped back, enticing her to follow through. She wanted to, but such a move could only signal a trap. That didn’t stop the low growl that tumbled from her lips, however, and he laughed bitterly.

“You even sound like a monster,” Fenrir snarled, “That Witcher should have killed you too when he came for Liri’s ghost!”

Rage flared up within her again, flashing red across her vision. She attacked without warning and this caught Fenrir off guard as her steel bit deep into the flesh his shoulder through the light leather armor he wore. Blood welled up from the wound, and he gasped when she pulled away, roughly wrenching her sword free with a slick squelching sound.

“You are no better!” Yasha shouted back at him, staring at the blood stained in his skin. “Look at you, covered in blood like an animal!”

“An animal? _AN ANIMAL?!_ You’re an abomination!”

Fenrir let out a blood-curdling battle cry and charged Yasha in a similar manner as she had, only Yasha was ready for him. Their swords clashed, over and over again as they spun in a tight circle under the torrential rain, biting and snarling at one another. They traded blows, nearly evenly matched in skill and strength. Fenrir caught Yasha in several places; a nick on one arm, a gash against the back of a leg, an altogether too close for comfort scratch on her neck, and many others. The rain stung and caused the blood to flow in rivulets from these various cuts until she was nearly as bloody as Fenrir, but though Yasha’s cuts were fewer, they were definitely deeper, and his face was white as a sheet even in his rage.

Yasha thought she heard someone call out for her in the distance, followed by a door slam, and for a split second her head turned just as Fenrir broke away from their close combat and swung at her with the broad side of his blade. He knocked her legs out from underneath her and sent her crashing into the slick, muddy ground, twisting about like a fish as she scrabbled for purchase. Another swipe came at her, this time to the head, but she turned just in time for the steel to only leave a deep cut on her forehead. 

Hot trails of blood gushed from it, making it even harder to see as Fenrir pressed a boot to her chest, pressing all of the air from her lungs.

He raised his blade, not even going to bother with offering her any last words like the animal he thought she was, and Yasha’s heart felt tight. This was it. This was her end, she thought.

Then she heard the voice again, calling out over the din of the rain and thunder: “Yasha!”

Both Yasha and Fenrir glanced over in the direction of the village, and Yasha was surprised to see the faint silhouette of the old hunter Micah stalking towards them. He had a bow held up with an arrow nocked in Fenrir’s direction. “Yasha, now!” He called out, and without missing a beat, she grasped her sword and swung it up with one hand, spearing Fenrir’s guts with the steel as a solid thunk followed shortly thereafter. Fenrir’s eyes widened, and he stumbled backward off of Yasha, reaching up for the arrow in his neck with one hand and Yasha’s sword with the other. He tried to speak, but only a death gurgle emerged along with a bit of blood that further stained his face with red.

Fenrir stumbled back further until he tripped and fell into the mud, wheezing and twitching in the beginnings of his death throes. Yasha tried to get up to grab her sword and stab him again to finish him off, but she could scarcely breathe as she watched Fenrir die. Micah nocked another arrow as he stalked forward, wasting no time burying it in Fenrir’s neck right alongside the first one. After that, Fenrir convulsed once, more blood bubbling up through his lips to spill down his face before he convulsed a second time and finally, finally grew still.

Yasha lay on the ground, bleeding and trembling until Micah stooped down and offered her a hand up. 

“Come on, we need to get you out of this rain, girl,” the old man rumbled gruffly. Yasha clung to him as she stood on shaky deer legs, only realizing that she was sobbing when she tried to speak. “Zu…” she managed between shuddering breaths, “Zu’s out there, dead or dying… Micah, _he hurt her_ , my Zuzu!”

The old man was deceptively strong, though shorter than Yasha by a head and mostly made of gristle and grit, and despite Yasha’s attempts to go back he managed to guide her away from the fields and toward his home. “I hear you, girl. I hear you. We need to patch you up first though, you’re bleeding everywhere. Got a nasty cut on your head from that fucker.” His tone brokered no argument, and Yasha was too out of it to even attempt to resist.

Yasha was only vaguely aware of being pulled into the warmth of Micah’s home, of the bath she was dunked into, clothes and all, followed by towels, wrappings, and clean clothes. If she ate anything, she couldn’t recall. 

It was still raining when she woke (when had she slept?) and she jolted forwards, rolling off the bed and onto the floor with a thud. Instantly, there was a presence at her side, close enough for her to feel the heat of it, but not so close that she felt threatened. “Rude awakening, I see,” came Micah’s gravelly tenor. Her breathing quickened, remembering all that had happened the previous evening (what _time_ was it, even?) but a gentle hand gripped her shoulder, steadying her. She reached up to grasp it, wincing as the movement tugged at some bandages.

“Easy now,” Micah soothed. “I know you must want to go out there and search, but you’re not fit for walking just yet and the rains still haven’t let up since last night.”

Last night.

“And…” Yasha coughed in an attempt to clear the sleep and tears from her throat. “And she hasn’t…” Beside her, Micah sighed deeply, helping her to sit back up on the bed she’d been lying in. “I’m afraid not. I know it must hurt to hear, but... “ She caught sight of his searching gaze, and there was some semblance of recognition in his deep-set eyes. “You seem to have been expecting this,” he said at last.

Yasha closed her eyes and bowed her head, turning away. 

“Something like that,” she answered evasively. “My mother told me I’d be on borrowed time with Zuala.” Yasha rubbed at her face, sliding her fingers into her thick white braids. “If we’d had the coin I would have gone north to Novigrad and gotten us passage on a ship to Skellige, but Fenrir was the brash sort who would’ve followed us anywhere.”

“Ah, is that the bastard who attacked you?” he asked, and he grunted when his wife came by to smack him with a wooden spoon. “Oi, woman!” He grunted, to which she responded in kind. “Watch your language, husband. Don’t want your boy growing up to be a heathen.” Micah only shrugged and shook his head, glancing at the little boy playing happily on the floor with some wooden animals that looked like Micah had carved them himself.

He smiled fondly at the boy before turning back to Yasha.

“Anyway, we can’t go looking for her body just yet for burial, even though I know we should. You need rest, and this rain needs to let up before we can think about going out there, but,” and he paused to put a hand to her shoulder and grip it tightly for emphasis, “we will go out looking eventually, I promise. Closure’s important with things like this.”

Yasha nodded, suddenly quite exhausted again. Her rage had subsided and left only a shell of herself in its wake, but her thoughts were clear. Sleep came to her quickly, if uneasily, and she vowed to make certain that no matter what happened, Zuala would be properly put to rest.

The rain let up the following day, and when Micah declared Yasha at least fit enough to stand and help look for a body, the first thing she did was march outside and fetch her sword. It slipped free of Fenrir’s body with a wet squelch, eliciting a wince from the tall woman. She cleaned her blade as best she could with just a cloth, giving it a cursory inspection to make sure the rain hadn’t done any damage to it, which it didn’t appear to have done. She glanced back towards the village when she heard shuffling, looking up to see Micah and a couple of men and women from the village.

“We’re here to help you look,” was all Micah said, and Yasha nodded, her body still numb.

Most of the villagers took to the river or the surrounding swamps to look, but a few stayed behind with Micah to help Yasha scour the fields. Hours passed, and the lingering clouds departed to reveal the bright blue of the noonday sky.

That was when Yasha saw it, with the sun high in the sky and beating down against her fair skin as the five of them stood very still at the edge of the fields. The creature was tall and even paler than Yasha, wearing what appeared to be shredded and stained white wedding garments. It let out a shrill shriek like the call of a moose mixed with a high pitched scream, and Yasha gestured for the others to duck into the grass.

“That can’t be…” the other woman who was with them whispered as they huddled close together. Yasha frowned, glancing back at the creature, for it was indeed a creature; though one Yasha had only heard about secondhand. She wasn’t sure from this distance, but the thing’s twisted face might have had elements of Zuala’s features mixed in with the monstrosity her spirit had become.

Micah grunted, then swore.

“We need to warn the others. Tell them to keep away from the fields.”

One of the other men hissed. “Whatever it is, it needs to die. These grasses have to be cut for planting new wheat soon.” 

“We need a Witcher then,” Yasha told them cooly, still staring at the creature.

“Why? Whatever for?” asked the woman, to which Micah replied, tiredness thick on his tongue, “Because if that is indeed Zuala, she’s become a noonwraith. None of our steel weapons will be enough, even if we all tried to hunt it together. Now, as I said, it’s best we go warn the others and start gathering some coin. Them Witchers don’t work for free.”

“And where will we find one?” chimed in the other man who had yet to speak. Yasha’s lips pursed together, and she sighed. He did have a point.

Micah seemed to have an answer for this as well, however, and managed to flash them a bitter smirk. “As fortune would have it, the last trader who came through here just before the storm blew in said there’s a Witcher dealin’ with another wraith in Midcopse. He might still be there if we send someone on horseback.”

“I’ll go,” Yasha immediately volunteered. “Putting Zuala to rest is my…” She cut herself off, biting her lip. Then she took a breath and continued. “This is my responsibility. I don’t want any of you getting hurt.” The others seemed to share a sad, yet grateful look between them, and Micah nodded solemnly. “Alright, then we should move.” He looked at the other three who were with them, directing them to go find the others still searching elsewhere to warn the villagers about the wraith. 

“I will lend Yasha a horse and some supplies, and with luck, she’ll be back with a Witcher in a day or so.” He caught her gaze and held in a tense breath. “Yes?”

Yasha nodded her assent in return. “Yes. Let’s go.”

Once given a horse and supplies, Yasha rode hard in the direction of Midcopse. She arrived shortly before nightfall and hitched up the horse near the town’s meager example of an inn. Upon her entering the establishment, the sounds of discussion and merriment ceased. Yasha let the silence roll off of her shoulders as she stalked up to the barkeep and put down a few coins.

“Ale, if you have it. Or a mug or whatever this will give me if you don’t mind.”

And just like that, conversation resumed, if only at a slightly more subdued volume. The barkeep nodded and poured her a tankard of ale. She downed a couple of gulps and was mildly surprised to discover it actually had a decent taste if only a little watery. She held up the tankard. “Thank you,” she managed, moments after polishing off the liquor. Barkeep chuckled. “You’re welcome, miss. What brings you to this shithole?”

Yasha grunted. “Not good tidings, unfortunately. There’s a wraith in the village to the south, and I heard from our old trader there might be ah… a witcher in the area.” She pursed her lips and tilted her head, sliding the man another couple of coins. “Would you happen to know if he has moved on yet or not?”

The barkeep was quiet for a moment before the door opened again and a cloaked figure stepped through. Familiar animal eyes peered out from beneath the hood, and the figure walked up to the bar, putting a skull on the weathered wooden tabletop. Slick hair and bits of skin were plastered to the bone, stained red with blood. “Wraith’s taken care of,” the cloaked figure spoke to the barkeep, who stared at the skull for a bit before turning around and plucking a coin pouch off of a nearby shelf and tossing it to the man, who caught it easily.

“That’s good. By the way, Witcher. This young lady sounds like she has work for you.” The cloaked figure turned, and when their gazes met Yasha could plainly see this was the same Witcher from eleven years ago. Before the witcher could speak, the barkeep gestured to the coin Yasha had put down and the empty tankard in her other hand.

“You want more ale, still?”

Yasha nodded, her throat tight as she stared at the skull on the bar, suddenly remembering why she was here. 

The witcher opened the pouch he’d been given and took a couple of coins from it, putting them next to Yasha’s. “I think I would have some as well if you don’t mind,” he said, and the barkeep hesitated for a moment but brought a second tankard for the witcher without complaint, collecting the coin from the drink-stained surface without another word.

They drank in silence and when they were finished, the Witcher put the skull back in a bag hidden beneath his cloak, gesturing for Yasha to follow. She did, and once they were out of the inn all she could think to blurt out was, “It’s you. The one from before.”

He hummed in agreement as they walked to where another horse was hitched up next to the one Yasha had ridden to get here. “You were the herbalist’s daughter. Curious to see one of you so far from your clan.” He busied himself with getting what appeared to be his horse ready for travel.

Yasha scoffed, sniffling. “I… was not wanted,” she told him quietly, and then shook her head. She had come here to bring him back with her. “But that is not important,” she pressed insistently. “There’s… ah. There’s a noonwraith in the village to the south. My fault. I… need help putting her to rest.” The witcher’s movements ceased as he pulled back the hood of his cloak to reveal the white of his long hair once more. “How is this wraith your fault, exactly?” he asked her darkly, voice thick with a warning that Yasha couldn’t place.

She struggled to gasp for air as tears began to collect in her eyes again, and she rubbed at them before they could fall.

“I left my clan… with another person. A woman who was meant for another according to the matchmaker. We… didn’t get married right away because we were terrified of being found, and we thought… we thought we were safe enough after six years.” A sob finally bubbled its way up and out of her throat, tears racing down her cheeks. “Her intended finally tracked us down a few nights ago,” she continued, trying to finish her explanation quickly before she fell apart. “And… and he killed her. It is her spirit that haunts the fields now, I know it.”

The tense expression on the witcher’s face melted a bit, and he sighed, shaking his head. 

“Then you are not at fault. I know you must feel that you are, but you are not.” He looked her over, accessing her. “Are you well enough to ride?”

Yasha nodded, still wiping at her tears. “Yes. Villagers’ll even have some coin for your trouble.”

The witcher’s expression tightened at that, but he said nothing more and merely mounted his horse, waiting for Yasha to follow. “Village to the south, you said?” he asked her, to which Yasha nodded mutely. “I know the way.” He clicked his tongue and tightened his legs against his horse’s flanks. 

“Come on, Roach,” he barked, and off they went.

Somewhere between Midcopse and their destination, Yasha realized something. She waited until they slowed their approach when the moon was nearly directly overhead, and then she cleared her throat to catch his attention.

“Yes?” The witcher glanced at her, golden eyes taking her in.

“I– just… realized that I do not know your name,” she told him quietly. The man huffed a soft chuckle. “Hmm. Geralt of Rivia. And you are more than just an herbalist’s daughter, I assume.”

“Yasha Nydoorin. An herbalist’s daughter once upon a time, perhaps. Now… I don’t know anymore.” 

Geralt’s golden eyes glimmered in the darkness and he hummed in response before turning back to face the road. The pair continued to make their way to the village in silence though once they neared the edge of it, Geralt clicked his tongue again and said to his horse in a low voice, “Whoa, Roach.” The horse, presumably named Roach, stopped immediately, and he dismounted. Yasha called her own mount to a halt and did the same, leading Geralt to Micah’s home and hitching the horse there.

She watched as Geralt paused to stare out at the grass fields to the west, and when he noticed her staring, he jerked his chin in that direction.

“Is this where she appears?”

“Appeared,” Yasha corrected him. “First we saw of her was today.” Geralt nodded, folding his arms across his chest. “So a very new wraith, then. It might make things easier. Do you have the trinket that binds her to this plane?” Yasha pulled the earring from her pocket that she’d been carrying since the night of the storm.

“I have this,” Yasha admitted, “but what you’re probably looking for is still on her body. Or maybe…” Yasha’s lips pulled back into a snarl, and she had to take a moment to breathe. “Or maybe Fenrir has it on him. I don’t think they’ve buried him yet.”

“Fenrir?” Geralt queried, which Yasha responded to with a low growl. 

“The–the fucking _bastard_. He–he’s the one who killed her.”

Silence reigned for a moment before Geralt uncrossed his arms. “I see. I am sorry for your loss. May I see the body? I should really be thorough with my search before I start wading through swamp grass.” Yasha grunted, heading towards the line of trees that were located south of the grass field. “Better you than me,” she told him icily. “I think I might sooner tear his body to pieces in my search for all the control I have left in me. You… you’ll be looking for a silver hair clip decorated with painted bellflowers. She kept it on a chain around her neck; said she was… was waiting until our wedding to put her hair up with it.”

Yasha stopped speaking then, once they arrived at Fenrir’s body. She stood still, very pointedly looking at a point on the tree above which his body lay beneath, careful to keep her breaths evenly measured. Geralt moved past her, kneeling down and rifling through the man’s armor and clothing. “He attacked you as well, I assume?” Geralt asked, somewhat conversationally.

It took a moment for Yasha to even register that he’d spoken, and she took in a slow, shuddering breath.

“What gave it away?” 

“Deep cuts in the armor. There was a lot of power behind them, and they would’ve been fatal eventually. The… arrows are a puzzling addition, however.”

“Hmm. Micah. An older hunter who was fond of me. He heard the fight over the sounds of the rain and came to investigate. It was a good thing that he had, as I let myself become distracted enough for Fenrir to knock me down. He had me pinned in the mud with a foot to my chest. The shot closer to his ear was after he got Fenrir’s attention and gave me the opening I needed to put my sword to his gut. The second shot was…”

“To put him down,” Geralt muttered, standing up and shaking his head. “A hunter’s instinct. Always shoot a second time to make sure your quarry is dead.” 

Yasha nodded, then glanced at Geralt’s empty hands. 

“So he didn’t have it, then?” 

“He did not. It must still be with her body… out in the fields.” He looked up and she shuddered underneath his golden gaze. “Noonwraiths can still appear in the night, so it is best to go out prepared. Do you happen to have any Arenaria with you?” 

“That is a very rare plant in these parts,” Yasha commented. “Yet I believe Zuala kept a few blossoms back at our cabin. Whatever do you need them for?”

“Specter oil,” Geralt answered her. “I used up quite a bit of it on the last wraith. Would you mind leading me to your cabin?” Yasha’s face pinched a little, not having been back there since that night. Yet, if Geralt needed this oil to help put down Zuala’s twisted spirit, then go back she must. Silently she trudged along the river’s edge with Geralt close behind, until they came across the cabin. Yasha’s hands trembled as she opened the door, the smells of their life together still… lingering in the space as she entered it.

“Herbs and flowers are in the cabinet above the woodstove,” she mumbled as she stumbled to the bed, picking up Zuala’s pillow and pressing it to her face. 

Gods, it still smelled like her.

Yasha stayed like that for a little while until she noticed Geralt was moving to leave, and so she stood, leaving the pillow on the bed. Geralt paused when he noticed her following him, and he frowned. “I have all that I need now. Who should I speak to about my coin when I am finished?”

“Micah. He lives in the cabin where the horses are hitched.”

“Thank you. Would you like me to bring you her remains when–”

“No.” Yasha’s voice was loud in the small space. “I am coming with you.” 

Geralt turned to her fully, his golden eyes glowing in the dim moonlight filtering through the windows. “As I said to you the last time, Yasha Nydoorin, this is a witcher’s work. It is best you remain here, where it is safe.” A growl ripped through Yasha’s throat even as tears filled her eyes once more. She stepped closer to Geralt, getting in his space. “Life has dealt me a hand which has taught me that I shall never be _safe_ , Geralt of Rivia. I tried running from my problems, and all that rewarded me with was pain and heartache. I would rather be rid of life altogether if it meant I could cast away this very existence and be with my Zuala again. Let me run towards my problems instead, Geralt. Let me help you slay her. If my _safety_ is the price I must pay for the rest of her soul, then _so be it_.”

Tears rolled down her face, dripping down her chin. She was nearly chest to chest with the witcher, their faces only inches apart. The space between them was charged with the rumbling maelstrom of Yasha’s anger and sorrow and after a few long moments, Geralt’s shoulders fell as a tired sigh escaped him.

“You are lucky then, that I haven’t yet sold my spare silver sword. It is… in less than ideal condition for fighting a wraith, but it will do.”

Yasha was still vibrating with emotion as she followed him out of the cabin.

“Thank you,” she whispered, to which Geralt could only shake his head. “Do not thank me yet. I would rather see you live this night. She is a very new wraith indeed if your information is correct and it will be easier to fight the wraith in the dark, but that is by no means a guarantee she will not be a danger.”

“And what then? If I live, that is. There is nothing here for me now.”

There were a few beats of quiet contemplation as they trudged back to the village, but eventually, Geralt hummed at nothing in particular and said to her quietly over his shoulder, “We shall see.” And the rest of their walk was spent in silence.

When they arrived back at where they had hitched the horses, Geralt took Yasha aside and showed her how the specter oil was made, how to apply it to a silver sword, all the while explaining why the oil was useful in felling a wraith. Then he unwrapped one of Roach’s saddlebags, removing a somewhat battered-looking blade that gleamed brightly in the light of the moon. He presented it to her, and she took the blade into her hands with reverence.

Geralt then offered her the oil, saying, “Now show me how you apply it.” 

She took the oil and did as she was asked, Geralt nodding as she did so. “You learn quickly. There is hope for you yet, perhaps. Come, let us go search for the body.”

Yasha followed Geralt into the fields, listening intently as Geralt explained how he was tracking where Zuala had been taken. Some of the things she could see and sense without needing prompting, but other things were either easy to miss to her mismatched eyes, or beyond her senses altogether.

“That is because a witcher’s senses are more than human,” Geralt explained to her when she asked, “for the mutagens that make us into what we are... change us into something other.” Yasha bit her tongue, wondering what such things might do to a person who was already “not quite human”. So she asked instead whether or not they would find the body tonight, to which Geralt seemed confident enough that they would.

And so they did, maybe another half hour later with Geralt on the trail. Fenrir had been sloppy, getting blood all over the mud and grass that not even a day and a half of rain could fully wash away. Blood had ways of remaining on things, clinging to them. As a witcher, blood had an even stronger scent on still freshly wet ground, so it was not difficult to find the little ditch where Zuala’s body lay, bloody and beaten. Yasha’s heart leaped into her throat and she beat back a sob. She could cry later, she promised herself, once the wraith was dead.

There against Zuala’s dusky throat, gleaming silver and blue in the moonlight rested the hair clip attached at the end of a delicate silver chain. 

“Would you like to remove it, or shall I?” Geralt asked though all Yasha could manage to offer in reply was a stifled whimper. Geralt sighed, shook his head, and knelt to remove the trinket from Zuala’s body with all the gentleness of a mother holding a newborn babe. Yasha couldn’t fathom why, but she knew that the gesture was for her benefit. 

“We need some firewood now, so we can burn this and summon the wraith. Are you still certain you wish to do this?”

No, she wasn’t. Fear was starting to roll through her body in waves, but she had to keep going, had to see this through to the end. And if this was to be her end, then she would meet it gladly if it meant she would be with Zuala again.

“I’m fine,” she managed in reply and stalked off to find the driest pieces of wood that she could find to help get this started. 

She came back to find Geralt having burned away a good portion of the grass field with what looked like some sort of… sign. “Witchers have magic?” Yasha asked as she began setting the scraps of wood into a suitable fire starter. Geralt knelt next to her and began pouring a different kind of oil on the wood, presumably to make it burn hot enough to melt the hair clip.

“A rudimentary kind, if that,” he answered simply. “Now, get up and stand back. Draw your sword and be ready. The wraith will not wait for you to get your ducks in a row once it’s been summoned.”

Yasha did as she was told, trying her best to quell the trembling in her legs. 

What was wrong with her? She’d hunted bears and wolves and other such dangerous beasts without feeling a shred of fear. Even fighting and killing other people did not entice this roiling anxiety in her gut or the rabbit fast beat of her heart. Perhaps it was that this was a beast of a different sort; Geralt had warned her that this sort of thing was a Witcher’s work. How then, did the man master his fear?

Geralt cast his sign again, setting the wood and hair clip alight. 

He stood and backed away quickly, and it wasn’t more than a moment later that a roaring shriek burst forth all around them. Geralt’s fingers glowed with purple light as he made another sign, this time manifesting as series of glyphs in a protective circle.

“This is the Yrden sign,” he explained, pressing his back to hers. “Noonwraiths can make copies of themselves that will drain your life force, and this sign will force a wraith to become corporeal enough to hit with a silver sword. So try to stay in it as much as possible.” Yasha grunted in response, not trusting her voice to remain even.

Dust swirled around them, eventually materializing into the wraith that Yasha had previously only seen at a distance. Close up now, she could she really see the twisted features that had once belonged to Zuala, and though the fear inside her still remained, her rage once again rose up to fit in the space next to it. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her borrowed silver sword, snarling at the thing.

Beneath her skin, her feathers ruffled furiously.

“There it is,” Geralt rumbled, moving away from Yasha to approach the creature head-on. “Alright, come at me, you piece of filth!” He twirled in a forward attack, a maneuver unfamiliar to Yasha. Apparently he was hoping to entice the creature to retaliate, which it indeed did. The wraith’s form shimmered and multiplied, and suddenly Yasha realized this must be what Geralt had warned her about when he’d said they could make copies of themselves.

One of the copies lunged at her, and Yasha cried out, swinging her sword through nothing when it passed into the Yrden sign in a plume of dust and ash. She stumbled back a little, coughing as she breathed a bit of the dirt in, but Geralt called to her over the shrill cries of the creature, “Remain calm and keep swinging! You might hit the real one!”

Yasha nodded and centered her feet once more, this time a little more prepared for when one of the copies charged her and dematerialized as it crossed the Yrden sign’s threshold.

Geralt spun around her little circle of safety, dispatching more of the copies here and there, clearly in his element fighting the creature. There couldn’t have been more than three of them left, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise to Yasha as much as it was when her sword actually landed in the side of something solid. She yelped but followed through with the swing, the creature’s howling reverberating through the blade and up into her arms to settle at the base of her skull.

Her fingers trembled even as she tried to keep her grip on the blade, and her breath caught in her throat while her vision swam. Yasha summoned the rage from within her to pull back from the creature and swing again, perhaps with less finesse but there was definitely more power behind it this time.

The wraith recoiled, spraying a wet, yellowish sticky substance as it shrieked, the sound rattling through Yasha’s bones. It faded again, and Yasha took a moment to catch her breath, knowing it would be back soon enough. 

“Are you alright?” Geralt asked, stepping across the Yrden sign to quickly check her over. “It hasn’t scratched you?”

Yasha shook her head. “N–No, though I am a little lightheaded.”

Geralt fished out a vial of blue liquid and tossed it to her. She fumbled the catch a bit but managed to keep ahold of it. “Drink that,” he told her. “It’ll help.” He took a swing of something else that was different than what he’d given her, and the veins on his face darkened some. After he downed it, he glanced at her again. “You’re doing fine,” he added, perhaps a touch awkwardly, as though his tongue was unused to giving compliments. “Just keep breathing. Don’t panic.” Yasha downed the blue liquid, hissing a little when it burned as she swallowed, but she found that her focus had returned and her strength replenished a little once she’d consumed the last of it.

The wraith reappeared to Yasha’s left this time, and Geralt immediately lunged at it with surprising speed and grace. He managed to catch it off guard and got a few good hits in it before it slid back a few feet and slung dirt and mud into his face. Geralt swore, “Ah! Damn, you’re ugly!” 

Yasha noticed it turning its attention back on her when the purple light of the Yrden sign began to flicker.

_Oh no._

“Geralt, the Yrden sign!” Yasha called out but wasn’t certain Geralt could hear her over the wraith’s shrieking. The sign began to flicker faster, so Yasha just spat a soft, “Fuck it,” into the mud and gripped the hilt of the sword as she charged the creature. She spun around, but her sword just passed through nothing, shredding the wraith’s shadows into dust. Another two were on her moments later, and she just did it again, and again, hoping to find something solid. 

One of the wraith’s mirages caught a forearm, and blood spattered across the mud in a dark red spray. She snarled, turning around to look for the creature, but it was gone again, having been caught by another of Geralt’s swings. Even partially blinded he was still an effective fighter. 

“It got you,” Geralt stated, glancing at her arm once he’d managed to rub enough of the mud and dirt from his face. Yasha’s lips pulled back in a strained smile. “It’s fine. I’ve had worse.”

Geralt cast the Yrden sign again, and this time directed her to corral it into the circle itself. 

“If we can trap the real one inside, that’ll slow it down enough that I can finish it off. So be ready.” Yasha nodded and felt her feathers ruffle uncertainly beneath her skin. Such a feat was easier said than done with how _fast_ this thing was, but she was less afraid of something that she knew could bleed and feel pain. Something that could be killed.

Something that she could feel had appeared right behind her and her breath caught as Geralt’s warning slipped into the silence that rushed over her ears. Yasha let her wings break free, forming into the structure of feather-covered bone and sinew that had saved their lives that fateful day on that mountain. The day Zuala had proclaimed her to be beautiful and kissed her.

Rage tore a scream from her lips as she knocked the wraith down with a wing and stabbed at it with a ferocity that would have disturbed her if she hadn’t fully given herself over to emotion at that point. The wraith spat at her, attempting to scramble away into the void but Yasha lept over it and slashed at it again and again, spraying viscous yellow liquid until her blade was drenched in it and the purple glow of the Yrden sign held it in place.

“Move back!” A voice cut through the haze of her fury, and she stumbled backward, sword falling from her grip with a soft thud. 

Yasha’s awareness of the world around her filtered in just enough for her to catch sight of Geralt pinning the wraith to the ground with his blade, the purple light of the Yrden sign setting his features alight as though he was some strange, fey beast. Then he gave a little twist of his hand, turning the sword in the wraith’s chest, and suddenly it exploded in a cloud of dusty blood and ash, and then the world around them grew still and quiet.

Sobs wracked Yasha’s body as she fell to her knees, her hands scrabbling at her sides, desperate for contact and comfort yet finding none. Her great white wings trembled, falling to the ground along with the rest of her, and she curled in on herself, shivering and shuddering as though she could slough off her grief by shaking it loose like heavy snow.

Yasha could hear the gentle snapping of brittle bones as Geralt presumably took a part of the wraith’s remains as a trophy. When the sounds of his shuffling ceased, she looked up to find him staring at her warily, as though she were a cornered, wounded animal.

He took a step towards her, and she skittered backward, breath coming in harsh pants. 

Geralt held out his hands in supplication. “Yasha, I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered, stepping a little closer to her until he was close enough to crouch, hands resting easily on his thighs. “How long have you known?” He simply asked her, letting the silence fill the space between them. Yasha took a few moments to breathe and wipe away her tears, folding her wings against her back.

“...about seven years,” Yasha told him honestly.

“Did your Zuala know?”

Yasha laughed wetly. “She was how I found out. Zuala almost fell off of a mountainside where some rare plants grew, and when I dove after her to try and save her, they… that was the first time that they manifested. That was… the first time anyone other than my mother called me beautiful.” Another sob bubbled up from her lips, and Yasha sniffed. “She made me feel like I wasn’t the monster everyone thought I was.”

Geralt’s eyes softened a bit and he opened his mouth to speak, but a rustling in the grass fields cut him off, and he turned around. Yasha pulled her wings back into their space between, the feathers settling under her skin once more, though they were calm at last.

Micah was the one who emerged from the underbrush, a shovel at his belt and his bow in his hands. The man took in the scene of the wraith’s corpse, the crouched witcher, and Yasha, half clutching at her scratched arm, and he sighed deeply. “Well, so that’s what that racket was all about,” he grumbled. “Let it never be said you and yours take your time with these things.” He leaned over a bit to catch a glimpse of Yasha, who had moved to stand with Geralt’s help.

“I’m guessing you took that ‘responsibility’ bit of yours seriously, didn’t you?” the old man grumbled, shaking his head, then he glanced at Geralt. “Best we bury the body before any swamp creatures come to claim it. Is she nearby?” Geralt nodded. “Body’s not far from here. Do you have a specific place where you bury your dead or…?”

Micah shook his head but jerked his chin at Yasha. “Zuala liked the river, didn’t she? The one that you liked to fish from?” Yasha nodded. “Yes, she did. I think she would’ve liked to be buried near the path on the hill leading up to our cabin, watching the river.”

She sighed and swallowed to loosen a knot of her tears. “It’s quite a pretty view from up there.”

“Would you like to carry her body or shall I?” Geralt asked Yasha gently, and Yasha glanced in the direction where Zuala’s body lay. “I… I think I’ll carry her,” she replied in a small voice, knowing how unsure she must sound. Geralt nodded solemnly and moved to pick up the silver sword that Yasha had dropped. He offered it back to her, and she took it gingerly, sheathing the weapon. “Let me know if you change your mind,” he told her in that same low voice.

His kindness felt like a warm blanket around her shoulders on a cool afternoon.

It was what gave her the strength to go back for Zuala’s body and cradle it in her arms. Like this, Zuala seemed so small, and if she weren’t so cold and stiff, Yasha could almost fool herself into thinking she was only sleeping. 

She didn’t even bother with that. Too much pain there. Instead, Yasha walked back to where Micah and Geralt stood and silently nodded at them to let them know that she was ready to head back.

The walk to the hill overlooking the river felt like the longest stretch of silence Yasha had ever endured, and she thought that she had grown used to the quiet from all that time she had spent as a lone hunter. Zuala had changed all of that though, and now the absence of her presence had torn gashes cleanly through her soul. Yasha felt like her essence was bleeding into nothingness, suffusing the air around her with grief and sorrow.

Yasha laid Zuala in one of the patches of wildflowers on the hill, and trudged up the path to their cabin, to the chest where they’d kept their gardening tools. She pulled out two more shovels, and closed the toolbox, handing Geralt one of the shovels when she arrived back.

It was a testament to how gently he was still treating her even now when he took the shovel without a word, and together the three of them made short work of a decently deep grave. Yasha picked up Zuala’s body again and held it against her chest, standing frozen before the grave. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and she felt like she couldn’t breathe.

“It’s alright, girl,” Micah’s voice cut into the dark haze of her thoughts. “Zuala was a lovely woman, and she would want you to take your time.”

Yasha took a shuddering breath and swallowed more of her tears. “No, I’ve taken enough time, I think. She needs… I need to put her spirit to rest.” _So this doesn’t happen again_ , Yasha thought. Geralt seemed to sense this and he cleared his throat to correct her. “Her spirit should be properly put to rest now that the wraith has been dealt with, and she cannot become a wraith again. This… this is for you, Yasha.”

Slowly, Yasha knelt and gingerly laid Zuala’s body in the grave. 

She pulled herself up and began to just as slowly fill the grave back in with dirt, hot tears falling down her face as she worked in silence. Micah had moved to help her a moment later, but Geralt put a hand to one of the old man’s shoulders and shook his head.

For that, Yasha was grateful. She needed to do this part on her own. 

Time passed, and eventually only Zuala’s face remained open to the sky. Yasha put the shovel aside and knelt down once more, grabbing some of the remaining handfuls of dirt in her hands.

“I love you, Zuzu,” she whispered, her throat growing tight again. “I’m going to miss you so much, I– you and Mama both. I’m sorry I wasn’t… wasn’t there for you.” Her shoulders trembled and her face was drenched with her tears. She carefully began to arrange the dirt over Zuala’s face, handful by handful, unable to resist against the pain in her chest, just dripping emotional vitals into the ether. “I love you, Zu. My beautiful Zuzu. I love you. I’m so sorry.”

She smoothed the last handful of dirt over the grave and just… fell apart, curling in on herself over the place where Zuala was now laid to rest.

Yasha didn’t know how long she lay there with her face pressed to the dirt, but eventually, she found enough strength in her limbs to pull away, gingerly moving to stand on coltish legs. Two pairs of hands helped her up and held her steady.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Think nothing of it, Yasha,” Micah murmured dismissively. “You go home and get some rest.” He glanced at Geralt and said, voice heavy with exhaustion, “I haven’t finished collecting your coin, Witcher, but if you’ll stick around until the next evening, perhaps…”

“I need to stick around and tend to the wounds she sustained from the wraith anyhow. There’s no rush.”

Micah huffed. “And people say that Witchers have no hearts. Well… it is _very_ late, and this old man needs some sleep. Take care of her for me, Witcher.”

“Geralt. And I will.”

They parted ways there, and Geralt held onto Yasha while she took one last look at Zuala’s grave before turning away. Geralt picked up the shovels and followed close behind as Yasha stumbled up the path and into her cabin, collapsing on the bed. She was asleep nearly as soon as her head hit the pillow, enveloped by the scent of Zuala’s perfume.

When Yasha awoke, the sun was shining through the cabin windows.

It had to be closer to noon than any respectable hour of the morning, but when Yasha lifted her head she almost wanted to put it back down and go back to sleep. 

“How is your arm?” A voice asked in a wary, rumbling bass. Yasha’s eyes opened wide when she remembered the events of yesterday and all of last night and what occurred well into the early morning. She groaned, pulling herself into a sitting position in spite of how shitty everything felt, and she lifted her arm to inspect the injury.

Which… had been bandaged.

“W–When did you do this?” She asked in return, gingerly running her fingers over the slightly stained cloth. Geralt hummed as he came into her field of vision, sitting on the edge of the bed with a wet cloth, more bandages, and something that looked like a salve of some sort.

“Shortly after you passed out,” he answered candidly. “Wraith scratches can get pretty nasty if they’re not looked after to prevent infection. Do you mind if I see?”

Yasha merely nodded and offered him the arm, watching as he carefully unwrapped the tight linen. Eventually, the cloth fell away, and while the scratches still bled a little and were a bit puffy around the edges, Geralt seemed satisfied with the condition of the wounds. “They look like they’ll heal well if I continue to administer proper treatment for it. Here, let me apply this salve and rebandage it, yes there we go…”

She winced when Geralt’s fingers applied the golden salve over the open cuts, but the pain soon gave way to a cool heat, which Geralt trapped beneath a set of fresh bandages.

“How… can you continue to administer proper treatment if… if you leave?” Yasha asked haltingly, still not quite able to fully grasp the concept of words after such an emotionally draining ordeal.

“If you choose to come with me when I leave, of course,” Geralt answered her as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Yasha was silent for a while as Geralt remained sitting on the edge of the bed, holding her gaze, golden eyes watching her without judgment. “You said last night that there was nothing here for you anymore,” he continued, “but even without Witcher training, you are quite skilled, and could become an effective hunter if you so choose. You also stand to possibly learn more about whatever it is that you are…”

He shrugged. “I personally don’t have a clue, but my mentor and fellow Witcher, Vesemir, might know a thing or two.”

“Could I… become a Witcher myself?” Yasha asked, and Geralt’s expression darkened.

“I don’t know. Kaer Morhen was sacked some years ago and most of the knowledge of how to create new Witchers was lost. Moreover, the process of becoming a Witcher tends to be quite lethal, as typically only three out of ten boys survived the ordeal.”

“Only boys?” Yasha pressed, unsure why she was doing so. She really ought to back off and let it go, but something fierce and animal inside her refused to do anything other than toe the line. Geralt eyed her warily.

“Becoming a Witcher is more than being good at an obstacle course full of monsters. I believe I’ve mentioned the mutagens that make us something not quite human?” Yasha nodded, waiting to see where he was going with this. Geralt continued, his eyes not once leaving her own, “The bodies of men are more predisposed to surviving this ordeal because they typically produce more adrenaline than women. It’s a hormone that runs through the blood when the body feels threatened. This hormone helps those of us who go on to become Witchers survive the administering of those mutagens.”

“You said men typically produce more adrenaline than men. What if I’m an exception?”

Geralt breathed in deeply and rubbed at his eyes.

“I know I must seem petulant, even foolhardy,” Yasha offered, knowing how she must look to the Witcher, “but clearly I’m not quite human already, and if the world wishes to brand me a monster, why should I not be allowed to make myself into something they already perceive to be as such? At least as a Witcher, I could be doing the world a service and make some coin for my trouble.”

There was a moment of silence as Geralt looked her over. Yasha felt the urge to shift uneasily under his intense scrutiny but remained still in her staunch determination. After a little while, Geralt pursed his lips and said, “The Path is a very long and lonely one, Yasha. Would you be prepared to live centuries without a single soul ever showing you a kindness?”

“Yes.” The answer was immediately at the tip of her tongue. “Life has already seen fit to take every person from me who has ever done so.” She paused for a moment, then looked the Witcher over. “Except for you, perhaps.” Geralt’s eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, and Yasha shifted, pulling her legs up underneath her as her hands gripped her thighs.

“I just... want to be able to choose,” she told him simply.

Geralt nodded slowly, looking away to glance across the room where some of his things were piled against the wall. “I can imagine you have not had many things to choose from then if this is the Path you wish to walk.”

Yasha shrugged. “You may yet convince me to walk in a different direction.”

Geralt snorted, and a short bark of laughter escaped him. Yasha felt tiny grin lift her lips at the sight of it; her, having made a Witcher laugh!

“Don’t give me hope,” he told her with a wry smile. “You’re stubborn, but I like you.” Yasha felt a kind of warm, familial affection gently flare to life in her chest. It fanned the flames of a tired if amused little huff that escaped her lips. “Don’t tell me I remind you of yourself,” Yasha teased, deadpan. 

“Alright then. I won’t,” he replied in kind, expression serious even though his golden eyes were alight with mischief.

He made her lunch – ”It’s noon; too late for breakfast,” he’d grumbled at her when she’d asked – and as they ate he let Yasha speak or not speak as she pleased. It was still hard for her to grasp how quickly things had changed for her, and were still changing, so she appreciated Geralt’s willingness to let her take things at her own pace. Once lunch was consumed, Geralt gestured to the space around them.

“Is there anything you would like to take with you? I don’t imagine you will be coming back here for some time.” Yasha nodded, choosing to remain silent for at least a little while longer. She pulled out some clothes from the trunk at the foot of the bed, a few sturdy, yet delicately painted mugs decorated in flowers from the cabinets, her personal steel sword, and a few other odds and ends. If a few of the things she kept were perhaps more sentimental than useful, Geralt either didn’t notice or care to mention it.

He also recommended that they take as many of the herbs and flowers as they could, as most of them would be useful in alchemy. Most potions were better off made in a proper lab, but there were some things he was willing to teach her while they traveled. 

Together they packed up what they could and made the trek back into the village. 

People were milling about when they arrived, coming at it from the edge of the grass fields near Micah’s home, and all stopped to stare as they passed. Geralt seemed unfazed, but Yasha wondered if she would get the same reception should she survive to become a Witcher herself.

Geralt put some of his things into Roach’s saddlebags while Yasha dithered on whether or not she should put her things on the horse she’d ridden on to fetch him yesterday afternoon. She was saved from further indecision by Micah’s exit from his home, upon which she was spotted by the old man as he let out a deep sigh.

“I figured you might want to go with ‘im,” Micah explained when he took some of the things she was carrying and began putting them on the other horse. “So I bought her for you just in case. I don’t believe she ever had a name, so if you want to give her one, go ahead.” Geralt grunted as he finished reattaching his silver sword to his other travel possessions. “Don’t get too attached to it, though. The horse, that is. The name you can keep. I just call all of mine Roach.”

Yasha nodded slowly, curious as to the story behind that and she wondered if she would ever manage to wheedle it out of him.

“I’ll give it some thought, certainly. And, ah, thank you. So much. That was… thoughtful of you.”

Micah gave her a quick hug and a pat on the shoulder. “May you find a better happiness elsewhere. Good hunting to you, Yasha.” She nodded, briefly returning the hug before the tears brimming in her eyes could fall once more. “Good hunting to you as well, Micah,” she mumbled into his wild mane of salt and pepper hair. Then Micah moved away and fished for a leather pouch in his pockets that was heavy with coins and handed it out to Geralt. “For your services, Witcher. I know it’s not much for a rush job, but–”

“It is plenty,” Geralt cut in, shaking his head. “Should keep us well supplied for a while if we’re careful.” 

He untied Roach from the hitching post and mounted her easily. Yasha followed suit, feeling her throat grow tight again. The people of the village hadn’t exactly integrated Yasha and Zuala into their community, but they had always at least been civil, even kind every now and then. She had even thought they might call this place home after their wedding, but now… as much as she knew she would miss this place and some of its people, Yasha wanted desperately to be anywhere else. She paused a moment, tugging at the reins of the dappled gray mare she had been gifted, and turned back to Micah.

“Would you… mark her grave for me?” Micah bowed his head and nodded. “Of course. You’ll know it when you see it, I promise.”

And with that, she turned back around and followed Geralt along the path heading north.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the beginning, I didn't intend for the Geralt to be in the picture at all. But the more I wrote them interacting, the more right it began to feel. 
> 
> It was at that point that it became less of just "the Mighty Nein in the world of The Witcher" and more of a proper crossover, and I felt it gave Yasha someone to look to as a mentor and guide who wouldn't abandon her like everything else. His characterization is probably somewhere in between the Geralt of the games and the Netflix series, since I wanted him to be talkative, but reserved.
> 
> Or at least that's what I was going for, anyway. I enjoy writing him regardless, especially from Yasha's point of view.
> 
> I'm also aware that I'm fudging a few things about the world since I haven't read the books and am relying on the fandom Wiki for a lot, but you know, it's just a really fun sandbox to play around in.


	5. Chapter 5

Yasha was twenty-eight when they arrived at Kaer Morhen for the winter.

It took them a couple of months to make it that far north, but Yasha was a good student and together she and Geralt would generally make quick work of whatever contracts they came across. Geralt was often impressed with her willingness to listen – something the young boys always had trouble with when he was a Witcher-in-training, he said – and her eagerness to take direction. He asked her about it once, to which she simply replied, “It might not seem like it all the time, but I mostly like living.”

That was something Geralt could understand, Yasha thought.

Somewhere along the way, Yasha’s birthday happened. They were in a decently sized town that day, and Yasha decided not to spend it turning her grief over in her heart like a worry stone. It would still be there when the next morning dawned, but she was determined to mark the day in her memory somehow.

That day, Geralt was off collecting payment from the contract they’d picked up a day or so previously, and Yasha had been left to her own devices (after taking Roach and her own mare, which she eventually decided would be called Stormlord, to the stables) with only the instructions to be at their rented room by nightfall so they could go over some alchemy recipes. She decided to wander the market, taking in the sights and smells, from vegetables and grain to sweat and shit, there was little she wasn’t willing to experience. 

Visits to such places had been few and infrequent when she lived with the clan, and though hunters went on the trips most often she had only been chosen to go maybe twice. Three times if she counted the one time she’d gone in her mother’s place for herbs.

Yasha wasn’t sure what drew her in, though later she would pin it down to the sharp sweetness that cut through most of the bitter, oppressive musk of the bodies around her.

She paused at a bakery, her mouth salivating from some tantalizing confection within. Something in one of the displays caught her eye, and she got the attention of one of the bakers to ask what it was, and whether or not she could have some wrapped up for travel.

The young man who helped her was very kind, also offering a small jar of honey to go with the treats, which she insisted on paying for but he insisted it was quite unnecessary. Ultimately, she ended up sliding him a few extra coins when he wasn’t looking, and she came away from the transaction feeling quite pleased with herself.

Yasha offered one of the cakes to Geralt that evening after dinner, and she could vividly remember the baffled look on his face.

“Though we have only been traveling together for a short while,” he commented even as he accepted the golden treat from her hands, “it seems unlike you to be so impulsive with your purchases. What brought this on?” Yasha ducked her head, one hand still resting on the jar of honey, fumbling with the catch on the lid. “I… I’m twenty-eight today,” she said in a small voice. “I figured Zuala would want me to try and find some way to enjoy myself. The cakes smelled delicious and I wanted them, so I… bought as many as I could, ah... within reason.”

She looked up at him then, only just managing to meet his golden eyes, which were staring back at her with some measure of fondness. It was another moment before he took a bite of the offered cake and hummed in quiet enjoyment. After he’d swallowed and taken a swig of the wine Yasha had also decided to indulge in order for them that evening, toasted her with the partially eaten cake.

“It was a good choice,” he commended her, and though he said little else and didn’t comment on her little revelation. A tiny knot of something in her chest loosened from this gesture of normalcy that made it easier to fall into a decently restful sleep.

They arrived at Kaer Morhen maybe three weeks later, not having seen another soul or anything resembling civilization for at least two of those three weeks.

An older man greeted them once they’re inside the aging castle, and Yasha realized before Geralt could even introduce him that he _must_ be Vesemir. She inclined her head to the older Witcher, who was plainly curious, though not hostile to her when she introduced herself to him.

“Yasha Nydoorin, is it?” he grunted, and Yasha immediately decided she liked the man. “Yes, and you must be Vesemir. Geralt talks about you to me often.”

“Does he now? And what does he tell you? That I’m still old enough to dance circles around him if I catch him telling tales about me, I hope,” Vesemir grumbled good-naturedly, glancing in Geralt’s direction. Geralt merely shrugged, and Yasha smiled weakly. “Oh, absolutely. He also tells me you make your own ale? I think I would like to try it, maybe.”

Vesemir let out a genuine whoop of laughter at this, and he promised to fetch her some at the earliest opportunity. Shortly afterward, Geralt showed her where she would be staying for the foreseeable future, and she settled in for a bit before heading back out to ask about food, for she was quite peckish and had been looking forward to something other than travel rations or the faintly seasoned meat of whatever they’d managed to hunt before camping.

Yasha heard Geralt and Vesemir talking in low, hushed tones as she was descending the stairs, and she paused there, knowing that surely, this conversation had to be about her.

“What are you thinking, Geralt, bringing a young woman to Kaer Morhen for the winter? How old is she?” That was Vesemir. Was he… concerned for her? It was difficult to tell from vocal inflections alone, and Yasha had trouble with interpreting such things even when she could see the expressions on a person’s face to match with their voice. Geralt sighed, growling quietly. Not frustrated yet, but definitely approaching a little affronted, perhaps.

“She’s twenty-eight, Vesemir. Hardly a young woman.”

“And are you two… involved?”

“Gods, Vesemir, no.” 

There was a beat of silence between Geralt’s soft groan and Vesemir’s next words. “So tell me how you came to travel with her then, and why bring her all this way? Surely she’s more than just a pretty face you took pity on and decided to look after during the winter.”

Another grumble, this one shorter, and more focused. Yasha carefully lowered herself to sit on the stairs, not wanting to interrupt the conversation but still bold enough to eavesdrop until one of them noticed she was there. She listened as Geralt told Vesemir the story of how they met when she was sixteen, and later again a few months ago in Midcopse. Geralt also laid out the sordid details of Zuala’s wraith and the events leading up to it that he could recall.

“She was quite insistent on fighting the wraith with me, and she was… extremely determined to do so. When she puts her mind to something, she gets this… kind of intensity behind her eyes, like the tension before heavy rain breaks. That, and she had just lost her wife. There would be no reasoning with that kind of grief.” 

Well, wife-to-be, but Yasha figured the semantics weren’t terribly important here.

“I prepared her as best I could, even gave her the spare silver sword I had with me,” Geralt continued. “And I was surprised to find that she was a capable fighter. She was afraid of the wraith, but she was furious with it, too.”

“A dangerous combination,” Vesemir interjected, and Geralt hummed an assent. 

“It was a very new wraith, and since we were able to summon the noonwraith at night, I didn’t think it would be much of an issue to dispatch it. However… it was clever, and nearly got the drop on Yasha. Any… any human would have died from the assault, I’m certain.”

There was an uncertain if curious grumbling from Vesemir.

“Ah, so she _isn’t_ human. Curious that the medallions don’t hum in her presence. What is she then? Do you know?”

“I was hoping you would know, actually. She… is not something I’ve ever encountered before. When the wraith appeared behind her, she manifested a pair of wings similar in structure to that of a giant eagle, but covered in white feathers so clean and pristine they were almost blinding. She beat the wraith back with one of them and basically used them to all but shove the wraith into the Yrden sign. Later, when I asked how long she’d had them, she said about maybe… seven years? Eight now I suppose. She must have been twenty when they first manifested.”

Vesemir hummed thoughtfully. “You know, that does tickle an old memory or two. It’s possible that she’s a–ah.”

Yasha froze. 

“Why don’t you come down and join us, dear?” Vesemir’s voice called out to her from below, and she pulled herself up to do just that. She poked her head around the corner of a doorway where the light of a hearth fire spilled out across the old stones, her gaze coming to rest on a table where Geralt and Vesemir sat with a relatively well-dressed meal and what must be some of Vesemir’s homebrewed ale by the smell.

“Sorry for eavesdropping,” she apologized as she sat down. “It seemed like a conversation you needed to have without me, but I didn’t wish to go back up to my rooms like a scolded child.”

Vesemir picks up a nearby empty tankard and pours Yasha some of the ale. It’s a tad bitter for her taste, but it goes down cold and smooth. She sets the tankard down with a soft exhale, and murmurs a humble, “Thanks. This is very good. Could maybe use something to mask the edge of bitterness, unless that is intentional.”

The older Witcher chuckles and jerks his chin at Geralt. “Well, look at this one! She knows her ales.” He tops off Yasha’s tankard and slides one of the plates of food toward her. She tries to remember her manners, but the weeks of rations and lightly seasoned game had made her ravenous for something more substantial.

She slowed down a bit when she noticed them staring, but Vesemir waved her off. “Keep eating, girl,” he insisted. “You’re not going to offend anyone with poor table manners here. In fact, it’s probably best to go without. It’s not like anyone’s going to care.”

Vesemir gave her a wry smile, and Yasha returned it, shoulder muscles slowly relaxing as she hesitantly resumed her meal.

“Geralt tells me you possess a pair of unusually white wings,” Vesemir says after a little while. Yasha sets down her food, takes a drink of ale, and then nods. “I do have wings, yes.” A bubbling rumble moved through her, and she beat a little at her chest until she belched. Yasha resisted the urge to cover her mouth, and Geralt hummed appreciatively.

“Nice one,” he quipped, and Yasha grinned.

Vesemir’s lips quirked up a little at the exchange, though he was still focused on the conversation.

“Any other unusual things? A halo, perhaps? Or someone speaking to you in your dreams?”

Yasha shook her head. “I’ve never had either of those things, though my hair has always been naturally ashen, and my left eye has been this unusual violet since birth. I seem to always be able to tell when there’s a storm coming.” She paused, frowning. “Though once, just before my wings manifested, I heard something that could’ve been a voice. I was kind of falling to my death at the time so I wasn’t sure.” Vesemir stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Well, let’s see the wings, then. If you don’t mind.”

She did mind, just a little, but it was a bit like how most people tend to mind being seen naked or indisposed. Still, she obeyed his request and got up from the table, looking behind her to make sure she wasn’t about to knock anything over that might break. She felt her feathers shift in anticipation, and she shivered as she took a deep breath before calling them forward.

Her wings slid free of their space between, that familiar growing sensation settling against the muscles around her shoulder blades. Energy crackled around her as the wings beat once on reflex, twice to steady themselves, before growing still as she carefully held them aloft.

A few feathers shed their extra down and fell to the floor around her like fuzzy snow.

Vesemir got up to examine them and reached up a hand to try and touch a feather before Yasha twitched. She ducked her head when he looked at her. “Sorry,” she mumbled into her chest, “I’ve never… they’ve never really been touched before. Not even by Zuala.” Vesemir nodded, but the hand still remained aloft. “May I?” he asked simply, and when Yasha’s answering shrug didn’t seem to be enough for the older witcher, Yasha cleared her throat.

“I–yes. You may.”

It felt… strange to have someone touching her feathers, ruffling through them and sorting the few tangled ones those fingers came across. It was not an unwelcome sensation; actually it was kind of nice. It made a part of her wish she had let Zuala touch them at least once, and she bit her lip at the dull throb that lanced through her heart.

Vesemir paused his examination and pulled his hand back. “My apologies if I hurt something,” he confessed, to which Yasha shook her head. “It was… fine. I just… regret. Some things.”

Yasha let the words hang there, hoping it was enough. Which for the older witcher, it seemed to be, as he nodded and moved to stand adjacent to both her and Geralt. “Not human indeed,” Vesemir mused, pulling his arms behind his back, hands clasped. “I believe you to be one of a race of celestial-based individuals called aasimar. Not too dissimilar from tieflings, but with divine heritage rather than infernal.” She nodded, pulling her wings against her back, but not dismissing them. It felt good to stretch them a bit after so long keeping them confined.

“What does this mean for me, exactly?” she asked, not sure how to process the information. 

Vesemir shrugged. “Not much. Your lifespan is perhaps a few decades longer than most humanoid races, and you have a couple of unique resistances to certain kinds of light and dark magics. You should have a little magic of your own to be able to heal small cuts and bruises. Keep people from dying for a little while.”

Yasha quirked a single eyebrow. “Truly? I do not think I have been able to manage this.”

Granted, no one had ever let her close enough to try.

“It seems unusual for you to be without a guide of some sort, so perhaps that is why. Regardless, it should be within your power to do this, along with the ability to call a light to you when you need one. Aasimar also possess an innate ability to understand the written and sung forms of the language belonging to the beings which they are descended from, though you have likely never encountered it before. Typically most circles view celestial as something of a dead language, and so only mages and scholars ever learn it.”

Vesemir tilted his head. “I do wonder why you would come all this way to learn this. Sure, there’s not a lot of people in the world who _would_ know, but still. Choosing to spend the winter in an isolated castle up in the mountains just for a few scraps of information seems… a little excessive. Or perhaps that you’re looking for something more than just information.”

“That’s… because I am.” Yasha confessed but was unwilling to elaborate. She glanced at Geralt who only gave her a raised eyebrow and an expression of indifference that pretty much said this was all on her. 

Vesemir at least helped offer a way into that conversation by tilting his head curiously to ask, “Well what is it? Surely it couldn’t be a witcher’s work if your wraith has already been dealt with.” He turned to Geralt, who just offered him that same expression and a shrug. Yasha steeled herself for what might follow, her wings fluttering with tension. 

“It is, and it isn’t,” she answered Vesemir, not trying to be evasive, and hoped it was clear she was working up to something. “Fighting that wraith, and losing my Zuala… put some things into perspective for me. You see, I… I have always been seen as something other. Something that doesn’t belong. I don’t know if it is something some humans can just sense or if people are more judgemental than I wanted to believe they were, but I have never fit in anywhere or with anyone that life didn't see fit to take from me.”

Her voice wavered a bit with some lingering tears, but she could feel the stirrings of a familiar anger in her breast and she latched onto it, used it to push forward with that fury as her fuel.

“I want to learn how to hunt these beasts. To know their hunting patterns, sleeping habits, quirks, and eccentricities as surely as I know my own. If the world is to brand me as a monster, then I wish to be allowed the opportunity to make myself into one, and then earn a little coin for my trouble.”

Vesemir’s eyes narrowed at her. “You wish to become a Witcher.”

“Yes.” Even now, the word still came to her lips, unbidden. “I’ll say to you what I said to Geralt; I know that I must seem petulant, even foolhardy, but I have had precious few choices of my own in life, and even when I tried to choose to change my situation for the better, I was always denied lasting happiness.”

“So of course, why not choose a life of unending misery and woe instead?” Vesemir cut in, and though sarcasm dripped from his words, Yasha wasn’t ashamed to admit that they resonated with her. “Exactly,” she agreed, which actually seemed to throw the older witcher off guard. “Teach me to hunt, to kill, to make potions that would leave any ordinary human close to the point of death should they consume them. I don’t even care that such a choice might kill me. It is a price I am willing to pay for the chance at being _useful_ even if no one wants me to be.”

The “and you cannot convince me otherwise” went unsaid as she lifted her chin in defiance.

Vesemir stared at her for a very long time, but Yasha was unwilling to back down and gave as good as she got. If she could endure the judgemental stares of her former clan’s elders, she could stand to wage a staring contest with a witcher.

Eventually, the old witcher’s shoulders dropped and he sighed, shaking his head.

“Gods, Geralt, where do you _find_ these people?” Vesemir grumbled, running a hand over his face. “She’s just as stubborn as you!” Yasha managed to summon enough energy to flash him a wry smile. “He may have been teaching me a few things as we’ve traveled. I don’t think the stubbornness was intentional, but I seem to have picked it up anyway.”

“Don’t listen to her, Vesemir,” Geralt drawled as Vesemir threw up his hands and returned to his seat at the table. “She was like that when I found her.”

“Regardless, you’re both impossible,” Vesemir said into his tankard of ale once he’d refilled it to the brim and took a long swig of the amber liquid. He gestured to the table and gently snapped at Yasha, “Well, come on, sit back down. I’m not making any promises since I’d still like you to meet Eskel and Lambert, but you know. Might as well settle in I guess. Be up bright and fucking early tomorrow though, because I have quite a few things for you to read before we start anything that resembles training.”

Yasha dismissed her wings and slid right back into her seat, taking the offered jug of ale and refilling her own tankard before resuming her quest to consume half of the food laid out before her. 

Some two weeks later she would meet Eskel, who was uneasy and skeptical about Yasha’s unusual quest, though the two bonded quickly over their shared knowledge of strange uses for common plants. In the years that followed as Yasha’s instruction and training progressed, they would often be found in the training yard together going through sword forms in silence. 

Lambert arrived not long after Eskel and had the most explosive reaction to Yasha’s presence, lashing out and putting a sword to her throat almost immediately upon meeting her. Yasha was unfazed by this and merely summoned her wings, beating them harshly to knock the young Witcher to the ground, pouncing on him in return. There was a scuffle followed by a duel in which Yasha managed to match Lambert blow for blow that only ended when Vesemir threatened to break up the fight himself if Lambert didn’t back down.

“Why do you want this so bad?” Lambert asked her a year or so later when their initial animosity had cooled somewhat and they were watching the sunrise upon one of the ramparts. “This is no life to _ask_ to be a part of. The hatred, the hunting, the scorn, and the derision. It fucking sucks.”

“I know that,” she replied without looking at him, eyes trained on the horizon of snow-capped trees. “But I’m used to it. At least this way I can be useful to the people who once thought me useless. And then they’ll have to pay me afterward.”

This admission somehow pulled a laugh out of Lambert, and though the two were never quite friendly with one another, there was an odd sort of respect that they built upon a shared desire for petty revenge, among other things. He grew to admire her tenacity as a fighter, especially the fact that even without the mutations she was quite capable of holding her own against him.

And so she settled into life at Kaer Morhen, hesitating at first to call the place home. 

Yet, as time passed and she grew in strength and expanded her knowledge of the dangerous and deadly things of the world, she could not help but admit that it would at least be a place to return to when she felt ready to leave it. Though she hoped that when next she did so, it would not be as Yasha the hunter, but Yasha… the Witcher.


	6. Chapter 6

Yasha was thirty-three when Vesemir finally allowed her to go through the Trial of the Grasses.

The night prior she sat in her rooms, meditating as she had been taught. Meditation, strangely enough, had been one of the most difficult of all the pre-mutagen talents for Yasha to cultivate. She was too used to moving, to thinking, to doing; her body wasn’t just wasn’t made for sitting still. Yet, as Vesemir had so accurately put it, she was stubborn and she forced herself to learn.

In the end, it proved a great way to settle her nerves. Tomorrow would either her last day alive or the start of a potentially very long journey to her first one as a Witcher.

Lambert still disliked the fact that this was something she was _choosing_ to do, but the hot-headed Witcher had his reasons. As she learned one long winter’s evening when they’d gotten drunk together, being a Witcher had never exactly been his choice. She understood now why this would always be a point of contention between them, but she made sure he understood why she was choosing it. 

A knock at her door cut into the quiet of her meditations, and she shook herself into awareness, patting her knees free of some non-existent dirt before she got up to greet her visitor. Her eyebrows lifted when, on the other side of the door stood Lambert, with what looked to be a bottle of _very_ fine Cintran wine. 

“Lambert,” she greeted him, still baffled at why he would be at her door. “What’s the occasion?”

He held up the bottle of wine as though that explained everything. “Join me at the usual spot?” he asked, and Yasha shrugged then moved to follow him up to the ramparts. Ever since that morning four years ago when they’d spent a couple of hours there watching the sunrise, that spot had sort of become their place to put aside their differences and have real discussions about the topics over which they disagreed. Given what was planned for tomorrow, Yasha had a pretty good idea what tonight’s talk would be about.

Lambert had not elected to bring glasses for the wine, so he just tore out the cork with his teeth and offered Yasha the first drink when they settled down to relax. “Here, a potential first last drink for the lady,” he teased, and after taking a swig of the wine (heady, with sweet beginning yet a smokey, bitter aftertaste) Yasha huffed. “So you do have manners, Lambert.”

He offered her a faintly sheepish half-shrug. 

“You might die tomorrow.” That was all he said for a long while until he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “You know, I thought all knowledge of this whole process was lost when Kaer Morhen was attacked. I guess Vesemir was holding onto a few secrets for… whatever reason.”

“I guess so,” Yasha agreed. She glanced up at the stars which were slowly filtering in as the sun dipped behind the horizon, painting the sky in hues of orange and lavender. “Do you… remember what it was like? What I’m to… to expect from this?” She turned to look at Lambert, who was staring resolutely at some fixed point ahead of him, his lips pursed in a fine line. “A lot of pain, to start,” he quipped dryly, then took another swig of the wine and handed the bottle back to Yasha.

“Usually this was administered to young boys, so I’m not sure how long it’ll be for you, but it lasted days for those of us who survived. The first, I don’t know, two or three days was just… pain. I was only vaguely aware of the passage of time due to the fever, and if I hadn’t been tied to the fucking table I probably would’ve convulsed straight off the side because the sweats and shakes were so bad.” 

Yasha took another pull of the wine and set it down between them. “And after that?”

“After that, the next round of mutagens were introduced, and I just remember blacking out to the sound of my own screams. Woke up sometime later, and boom. Just like that, I was a Witcher.”

Then it was Lambert’s turn to look over at Yasha and look her over. Yasha wasn’t sure what he was looking for exactly, but after he was done he picked up the wine and polished it off, cursing quietly. “Damn. Should’ve brought a second bottle.”

“It was fine while it lasted. I appreciate the thought, Lambert.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lambert mumbled, then pulled his knees up to his chest, crossed his arms upon them and then pillowed his chin there. 

“You know… I know we don’t always like each other but… I hope you don’t die?” He sounded almost… sad at the thought of Yasha’s possible death at the hands of this trial. It did cause something in Yasha’s chest to constrict sharply at the knowledge that someone would actually miss her if she died. Slowly, she took the empty wine bottle and set it aside, scooting closer. They weren’t quite touching, exactly, but Yasha could feel the heat of Lambert’s body burning beside her if she concentrated hard enough on the sensation.

She knocked her shoulder against his, just the once, and he hummed in acknowledgment.

 _Thank you_ , that hum said to Yasha. _And good luck_.

The following morning, Vesemir instructed Yasha to eat something for breakfast even if she might not keep it down later during the Trial. Yasha did as she was told, trying to ignore the shaking of her hands as she cut her ham into pieces. Geralt was the one who came to fetch her, expression somber. She knew that it was time to go when he didn’t cross the threshold into the mess hall to join her and just remained standing in the doorway, Yasha briefly exhaled and stood, carefully washing her plate and utensils before following him down to the labs.

Geralt stopped a few paces short of the door, catching Yasha’s arm as he did so.

“I want you to know,” he told her seriously, “that whatever happens, I am glad to have met you.”

Yasha nodded and merely replied in kind, “And I hope you will continue to be glad to know me. But in the event that I should perish, thank you for letting me choose this.”

Yasha walked forward those last couple paces, opening the door to the lab.

Vesemir and Eskel were already inside, with Eskel preparing a table covered in straps on one side of the room and Vesemir on the other side fussing with a variety of foul-smelling cocktails that surely must be the mutagen potions in progress. Eskel merely glanced up and gave Yasha a brief nod of acknowledgment, with Vesemir instead pulling himself from his work to turn around and greet them.

“There you are,” he grumbled, sounding almost something close to cheerful. “The first round of mutagens will be ready soon. Best we get you on the table and strapped in. Eskel will help you get comfortable.” Yasha exhaled slowly, knowing that she would soon be anything but comfortable. Vesemir caught the attention of Eskel, who motioned for Yasha to approach the table and lie down, which she did, and Eskel began to very carefully strap down each of her limbs. “Now, Eskel,” Vesemir continued after having turned back to his brewing, “since we’re without a mage I’ll need your help with some of the later rounds. Geralt has more mastery over the signs, but you have a better magic pool for these things.”

Eskel muttered something unintelligible that sounded like a reluctant agreement.

“Oh, and Geralt? Try to find Lambert, if you can. I think I saw him passed out somewhere earlier.” Geralt nodded. “Already on it, Vesemir.”

Geralt left to go find Lambert, and Yasha remained quiet as Eskel continued to tie her down. At some point though, she couldn’t handle the silence and said in a very soft voice, “You know, if I live through this, I think I may develop a fetish for being tied down. It’s a shame I’m not particularly into men, or this might be going very differently.”

Eskel didn’t laugh, but his lips quirked up a bit as he began the process of fine-tuning the restraints. Yasha’s heart continued to thunder within her chest and she knew that the witchers had to hear it clear as a bell.

Geralt eventually came back with Lambert, who was surprisingly quite sober. He immediately took Eskel’s place in attending to Yasha, and once Geralt closed the door behind him, Vesemir poured one of the foul-smelling concoctions into a vial and turned around. “Alright, no more waiting. Yasha? It’s time.” Yasha swallowed, doing her best to still the frantic beating of her heart. Lambert came around and secured her head to the table for the final fastening. He didn’t say anything, just caught her gaze and held it as his hands very gingerly massaged at her scalp through her braids.

It was such a little gesture, but upon remembering what he’d said last night – that he’d miss her if this venture failed – Yasha’s breathing eased somewhat, and she closed her eyes, opening her mouth wide.

That first vial felt like liquid fire and tasted of piss and vomit. She almost didn’t manage to get it all down, but Vesemir was determined, massaging her throat to help the stuff go down by force. Another vial quickly followed that one which sent her body tumbling into chills, and though it tasted of nothing her mouth went numb and sweat began to form on any patch of skin not covered in clothing. It smelled of rotting cheese, curdled milk, and alcohol, which made her eyes water.

The fever set in not long after that, and the pain followed in its wake.

She was determined not to scream, but she couldn’t help the tears. Yasha sobbed uncontrollably, thrashing and whimpering without a filter. She wanted to beg, but by the time she was willing to do so, another round of the same concoctions was being poured down her throat.

There were no windows in the lab, so she couldn’t quite discern the passage of time through the pain. All she knew was that the pain came in waves, and each time it came back stronger with some new sensation with which to torture her. The first change was her hands, and she swore she could smell blood from how tightly her nails pressed into her flesh as lightning pain flashed through them, her arms lifting up and straining against the restraints.

Distantly, she was aware of Vesemir yelling something, and the pressure around her arms intensifying, preventing her from moving. Geralt’s hushed tones washed over her, but the words could bring her no comfort now.

Next was her legs and feet, which followed in the same manner as her arms and hands until her movement was limited to arching her back and crying out furiously.

When had she gotten so angry?

It didn’t matter, but she knew that she was. She felt flames spill from the crown of her head, and her eyes were melting from the heat. Yasha’s back arched as she flailed, something sick and bitter sliding down her throat again as it did so. Her feathers flared and she was suddenly falling through the air again down the side of that mountain, only this time there was no Zuala in her arms. There was no voice telling her to spread her wings to fly.

But there was her anger, and she held onto it until she couldn’t breathe. She screamed a wordless note of fury that tore from her chest, burning hotter and hotter and–

Something pricked her arm, and, unable to move, she felt the pain spike even higher as she struggled to hold on to awareness and emotion. She coughed, and her tongue tasted blood-soaked wood before that vomit from before came back with a vengeance. Her muscles seized, and suddenly she was unable to thrash the pain away to more bearable levels. 

Yasha whined and begged even though her words could not make their way past a dead, unfeeling tongue. 

A vast sea surrounded her, and she was thrown at it headfirst, wings outstretched. The wind ran through the feathers but refused to catch her as she fell. Yasha’s head breached the surface of the water, and though the impact on the water alone should have been enough to kill her, it wasn’t, and she kept falling. Down into the deep and dark depths of the ocean, far, far beyond what any human could withstand.

Muttering filtered in through what remained of her consciousness as she drifted further down.

“ _–can’t believe she’s still–_ ”

“ _...coloring’s unusual, but didn’t you also…?..._ ”

“ _–Nearly hit me! …’spposed to be white–_ ”

“ _...still warm, strong pulse…_ ”

“ _–fuck, it’s…. Days!…_ ”

“ _Stay strong, sunflower_.”

The fire dulled, as did the roaring in her ears. She still couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, but she was fine with that. The ocean was breathing for her. The thunder in the distance was her thoughts, rolling in on themselves over and over again. The lightning commanded her heart to beat. 

Yasha was safe here. Safe with the water around her, wings held suspended as she dove deeper and deeper into the darkness. It was here that, at last, she slept. She slept and did not dream.

 _Open your eyes_ , a familiar voice whispered.

And so she did. 

The world filtered into her senses all at once, and she gasped, but her breathing was her own. She was still tied down, yet only faint exhaustion remained. The fire and ice were gone. A chair or two tumbled over, and Yasha could hear Vesemir telling the others to back off for, “–just one fucking second! It could be another fever…”

Yasha groaned, and when Vesemir approached her, torch held aloft, she exhaled with a breathy little giggle. “Vesemir,” she whispered, eyes wide with wonder, “I can _see_ dust motes. There’s… there’s so many of them…”

A collective sigh of relief filled the room, and Vesemir merely shook his head, a tiny smile on his face. 

“So there are, Yasha. So there are.”

Eskel and Lambert made short work of her fastenings, and Geralt brought her something to eat. Finding herself suddenly ravenous, she all but inhaled the food until she realized… oh. She was awake. And alive. 

“I… survived,” she murmured, dazed. Lambert scoffed. “Yeah, you did. You almost killed me with those wings of yours, and you painted Eskel a pretty picture on his clothes with your vomit, but it’s fine. Smellier shit than vomit gets on Witcher armor all the time.” Then a faint expression Yasha couldn’t discern the nature of crossed his face, there and gone in a flash. Something had happened to her wings. What was it, and why wouldn’t Lambert tell her? “I’m looking forward to sparring later, Yasha.” He gave her a little nod and then left, with Eskel following soon after.

Yasha sent down her now empty plate and turned to Geralt, who offered her a hand.

“Did… the mutagens… do something to me, Geralt? And don’t be an ass like Lambert. Please.”

He helped her stand, and Yasha was surprised to find that her feet were quite steady. She wanted out of that room, though. It stank of witcher mutagens, blood, vomit, and piss.

Geralt followed her out, and once they were back on the main floor, he took one of Yasha’s hands. “Come, it would be better to show you. It’s not as terrible as Lambert would make it out to be, just… different.” Yasha thought about worrying at her lip, but the impulse vanished as soon as it entered her mind. “And my wings, Geralt?”

“Still intact and feathered,” he answered her evenly, “but you should have a look at them too.”

He led her to a room that Yasha guessed had once been an armory from the smells of leather, sword oil, and rusted iron that lingered there. Not much remained but for a decently large floor-length mirror. Geralt gestured for her to step up to it, which she did. If she’d had a better grasp on processing her emotions as a newly minted Witcher, she would have gasped.

Her hair was no longer white. Some of the white did remain at the tips, but that white transformed into a light gray as it traveled upward into darker and darker grays until eventually, pitch-black hair spilled from the crown of her head. Yasha’s eyes remained the same odd ice blue and bright violet, but now the pupils were cat’s eyes that waxed and waned as she focused on different parts of her new appearance.

Then came the moment of truth as she summoned her wings; feathers falling all around her.

When the feathers stopped falling, she opened her eyes once more and was struck with something that felt like… awe.

Her wings, once those of the purest white, were white no more. However, like her hair, speckles of white remained, painting the fresh black canvas of her new wings with an entire galaxy’s worth of breathtakingly beautiful stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who hasn't read the books, this was a difficult chapter to get my head around. (I do intend to at some point. I'm switching jobs soon so I might be able to start picking up the audiobooks for myself instead of having to wait for the library's ones to be available.)
> 
> I had to kind of handwave a couple of things, especially you know, the bit about the whole process supposedly being lost to time and whatnot, but you know. Writing pain upon pain until it becomes almost like a kind of ascension is also a special torture all its own, but I'm happy with it, I think. 
> 
> In regards to Yasha's wings, I knew from the start I wanted her to have feathered wings, but for the process of becoming a Witcher to change them. It also worked out as a way to change her hair to how we know it as she appears in her official character portraits.
> 
> Also, I really enjoy how she interacts with Lambert. It's such a fascinating character dynamic to me.


	7. Chapter 7

Eventually, after a couple of years under more extensive training, Yasha would pack her bags onto Stormlord and leave Kaer Morhen on her own for the first time.

The years blended together, and though Yasha found the work she did satisfying, she also found herself yearning for… something. It unsettled her, not knowing what it was that she yearned for, but the feeling was there all the same. At times it felt like lightness in her chest or heaviness in the gut, but every time Yasha thought she was used to it, the feeling would shift.

She felt one such a shift occur as she was passing through Velen one winter, heading north back to Kaer Morhen for some well-deserved rest after finishing up an extended month-long hunt for a royal griffin near Beauclair. She almost didn’t recognize the village as she came upon it, not having been there for at least a quarter-century by that point. She had dismounted Stormlord to get a look at any potential contracts posted to the notice board when she glanced up to get a look at the name of the village etched into the topmost plank of wood.

Yasha knew this place; this was the village her clan would winter at every year for as long as she could remember.

That odd nervous flutter tickled the back of her neck and wound its way down her spine as she shifted from one foot to the next and her eyes finally landed upon what she was looking for: a witcher contract. The details were vague, but the general description sounded like a draconid of some kind. She took the contract with her and went off to find the village ealdorman. 

The ealdorman was older than Yasha remembered, his hair receding and eyesight fading. Or at least it must have been because he didn’t recognize her when she spoke with him, and he directed Yasha to seek out the matchmaker for the barbarian clan that resided in the squat little log cabin about four homes down the main road. “She’ll know more,” he said, voice squeaking in that way voices just sometimes did with the elderly. “I believe it was her that got a good look at the thing only just a few days ago. She’s also the one collecting coin for a reward, so you’ll need to talk to her to negotiate…”

He said some more things after that, but they didn’t really filter into Yasha’s mind. She was already dreading the conversation that would come next, even if the matchmaker didn’t recognize her either.

Yasha booked a room at the tavern and got Stormlord settled into the stable there before she trudged down the main road to the matchmaker’s residence. When she got to the door, Yasha took a few moments to let the mutations in her blood fill in the spaces in her head where anxiousness would gather, so that she might attend to this conversation with a clear mind. Then she lifted her hand and rapidly rapped the backs of her knuckles against the wood.

A dog barked on the other side of the door as a young man about sixteen or so opened it, peering out at Yasha. Too young to have known she’d ever been a part of the clan, she thought. He didn’t seem afraid of her either, just curious, especially once he spotted the wolf medallion resting above her armor.

“Are you here about the creature that’s been hunting people?” he asked, still clinging to the edge of the door and staring up at her with wide eyes. Yasha nodded. “I was told to speak to the clan matchmaker. Is she home at the moment?” 

“She is, yes.” The young man opened the door a bit wider to let Yasha inside, swearing a little as a smallish sheepdog puppy nipped at his heels, trying to wiggle between them and escape to the outside. Yasha chuckled and did her best to aid him, and together they managed to keep the puppy from making a break for it before they were able to close the door. He thanked her profusely and nodded with a sheepish grin stretching across his face. 

There wasn’t any tea he could offer her, but she told him it was fine and that it was probably best she speak with the matchmaker quickly so she could go hunting sooner rather than later. The young man left her standing in the kitchen and dining area while he went to inform his grandmother about the “lady witcher” who was there about the contract the ealdorman had posted and was seeking information.

A room over, Yasha heard an older woman’s skeptical grumbling.

“A lady witcher? Hmm. You sure it’s not a man with long hair, boy? Oh, fine. Send them in, if they must speak with me.”

Yasha’s skin prickled at the sound of _that_ voice. She dug deep into her Witcher’s calm when the young man came back to fetch her, leading her to the room where the old matchmaker sat knitting in front of a roaring fire. A larger female sheepdog lay nearby, with what looked to be the rest of her brood, all of them sleeping. The matchmaker looked up when Yasha entered, and the air in the room changed almost instantly within seconds of the woman meeting Yasha’s mismatched eyes.

Her grandson could sense the tension in the air, and he immediately scrambled off with an excuse. Something about firewood, Yasha thought. It wasn’t relevant anymore, now that she had the attention of the clan matchmaker.

“I had wondered what became of you when Fenrir didn’t come back from his hunt,” the old woman drawled icily. Yasha forced her heart to slow so she could hear the matchmaker’s heart speed up. Though she sat calmly in her chair, Yasha could smell the woman’s fear. _Good_ , Yasha thought, _let her be afraid_. The sheepdog lying next to the fire perked up, ears swiveling in the direction of Yasha.

Yasha was careful to keep close to that line between non-threatening and looming oppressively.

“He would have managed it if he hadn’t gotten sloppy towards the end,” Yasha replied, deliberately toneless. The old woman scoffed. “When that boy said a lady witcher had come calling on me, I thought surely he must be mad, for there are no lady witchers.” 

“Yet, here I stand in all my monstrous glory.” Yasha leaned in just a hair closer, and she could feel the woman trembling from but a few feet away. “Why don’t you tell me more about this other monster of yours? The one that has been stealing people and livestock alike? That one, at least, you can safely say isn’t a mess of your own making, Matchmaker, unless you have the gall to offer me a pittance for my reward.”

The old woman bit her lip, a tiny crack in the matchmaker’s stony facade.

“Name your price then, Witcher.” 

Ah, falling back on titles, was she? Yasha snorted. “Tell me what you saw, first. Then I shall decide what my price will be. The notice was… not terribly generous with the details.” Yasha’s blood sang as the old woman gave a halting yet surprisingly detailed account of a wyvern sighting. This would be a creature worth a pretty penny indeed.

“200 crowns,” Yasha demanded. The old matchmaker hissed. “Extortion, I say! 115, no more.”

Yasha shook her head and leaned forward again, this time baring her teeth a little. “170.”

“130, you ungrateful wretch.”

“155 crowns... _and_ you have to _thank me_ in front of the rest of the elders. Publicly.” Yasha countered with a predatory grin. “That’s my final offer. Take it, or take your chances with the wyvern. Your pick.” Then she pulled back to watch the old woman’s hands gripping her knitting so hard that the needles almost snapped.

Yasha waited patiently, watching while the old woman seethed. She looked so small and feeble in her chair, and Yasha wondered why she had been so nervous to come here. Thinking about the young man that was her grandson and how she had been gone long enough for him to have been born and not know who she was… It was almost liberating. It lifted that heaviness in her gut that had been plaguing her since she had arrived, but still, that yearning remained.

Someday though, all of the people who had once cast her out would be gone, and Yasha would still be around, hunting monsters and collecting coin.

It was a satisfying thought indeed.

Eventually, the old woman sighed, looking away to the fire roaring away beside her. “Fine, 155 and a public thanks. Now go and deal with the thing before I change my mind.” Yasha complied, smiling at the confused young man as she exited the house and left to prepare for a wyvern hunt. These were honestly her favorite, as she could do something no other witcher could when she hunted things that could fly.

This wyvern was messy, so it didn’t take long to track it down. Yasha found it in a clearing just north of the village, feasting on the remains of a large cow, slinging blood and guts every which way. It hadn’t sensed her immediately, which was how she was able to get the drop on it from above, wings spread wide as she descended upon it. 

The wyvern shrieked and hissed and she got in a few good hits, summoning a Quen shield moments later so the barbed tail of the beast didn’t backhand her into the icy swamp sludge. It took off running and launched itself into the air with Yasha hot on its trail. Yasha’s inner hunter crowed with delight at such a chase, and she was able to catch up to it before it could reach a higher altitude than she was capable of maintaining, her silver sword dragging along its belly and spraying showers of blood into the trees below.

It crashed into the fields of dead grasses, wounded and snarling. Yasha landed, pumping her wings to keep it disoriented until she was able to pull them in close and begin a series of quick strikes to maintain her advantage. The wyvern roared, rearing on its back legs in order to attempt a swipe with its claws, but Yasha rolled off to the side and sliced open a wing. 

She did get a bite to the shoulder when she pulled back around, but the potions she had taken earlier mitigated most of the pain, and she pressed past it to bury her sword deep in the wyvern’s chest. There came one last shriek, but it was soft and gurgling as the creature stumbled and rolled into a nearby pit of swamp water and slush, warm body steaming in the cold. Yasha waited for it to stop twitching before she took her trophy, and turned around when she heard a shuffling in the grass.

Yasha’s brows lifted when she saw the old matchmaker hobbling out to her with a staff in hand.

“Did you come out here to see if I was actually going to hunt down your wyvern? Usually, I have enough professionalism in me to not abandon a contract once an agreement is struck.” Yasha informed her, only just managing to sound disinterested in the woman’s unexpected presence. 

The woman’s cracked lips pursed into a fine line, but instead of an angry retort, she just offered a simple reply in a quiet, gravelly voice.

“Usually, is it? Hmph. I only came out here to see what all the racket was.” She eyed Yasha’s wings with a guarded expression. “I didn’t expect to see… this.” Yasha huffed, and her wings fluffed up reflexively. “Well, your wyvern is dead now,” she stated coolly, “I’ll collect my payment in the morning.” She then began the process of harvesting the main components of the wyvern most useful to a witcher, starting with any mutagens, good bits of hide; strong, intact teeth...

“If I had known this is what you were…” the old woman murmured, but Yasha resolutely ignored her, growling quietly. “Yeah, but you didn’t. So too little too late.”

“Your mother simply wasn’t forthcoming. She was very secretive.”

Yasha took a moment to let the Witcher’s calm fill her mind before she decided to murder this woman. She just… didn’t understand. A brisk scoff clawed its way out of Yasha’s throat as she drained some of the still-warm wyvern blood into clear glass vials. 

“Zuala knew. Did you not ever think to ask her why she cared for me when no one else did? Of course not, because neither of our opinions ever mattered.”

The old woman was quiet for a few moments more, and Yasha could tell she was shivering a bit as she stood there, just watching. Yasha let her stew in whatever foul concoction might be swimming in her thoughts as Yasha methodically began taking the wyvern apart.

After a long while, she cleared her throat and began to speak once more.

“What happened to the girl? If I may ask.”

 _You may not_ , the rage within Yasha hissed, but she quelled it and sighed deeply as she continued to work. “Fenrir killed her. I killed him back, but not before Zuala’s spirit became a wraith. I found a Witcher to help me hunt it down, and then I buried her. I had nothing left after that, so I decided then that if fate or destiny wished to brand me a monster, then why should I not just… become one? At least this way I am _necessary_ in a way I never was for any of _you_.”

Yasha’s breathing came in harsh pants as she finished, shivering in her barely contained fury.

“Fenrir killed her?” She sounded so… incredulous.

Yasha snorted and stood up. She’d gotten enough of what she needed, and perhaps she’d come back later for more but now she should really leave before her control slipped and she just tore this woman a new one in a less than figurative manner. 

When she turned around she looked the woman square in the eyes and said seriously, “You were too busy hunting a scapegoat that you didn’t realize what a wolf in sheep’s clothing he was. Sometimes, men can be monsters too.” And then Yasha dismissed her wings and walked off without another word, intent on a bath and a warm meal before bed.

She was eating breakfast when the woman’s grandson came to the tavern to inform her the elders would be waiting in the village’s gathering hall for her. Yasha nodded and thanked him, taking her sweet time with her breakfast before heading out.

Yasha tossed the wyvern trophy on the table in front of them, slipping into a now-familiar air of business. Most of the elders she hadn’t really any umbrage with, just the matchmaker, and she’d dealt with that. The elders muttered amongst themselves, surely having recognized her even with the different hair and the Witcher armor she wore, but their gossiping mattered little. She told them where to find the remains of the wyvern, and that if it was harvested properly, much of the beast could be stripped for leather and meat and other useful odds and ends, and that she was only here for one last thing.

She fixed her gaze on the matchmaker, who just looked… defeated. 

The old woman kept her promise, however, and stood in front of the rest of the elders and thanked her for her services, handing her a pouch of coin. Yasha didn’t bother to count them (though when she did count later she would find that there was actually 10 more crowns than the agreed-upon price) for she had gotten what she wanted. 

Yasha hadn’t expected to leave the village feeling about the same as she’d felt when she arrived, but she wasn’t surprised. Such a reckoning, even if well deserved, would not satisfy the yearning that lurked within her breast.

No, that yearning would remain for many years to follow, sometime after Yasha had an altercation with the sorcerer Uko’toa in Blaviken when she allowed his precious dragon halfbreed, Calianna, to escape his torturous clutches and flee into the surrounding wilds. Though she had only been defending herself from his murderous rampage in the center of town where everyone could see, the townsfolk did not take too kindly to her killing the man that had “helped” so many and had been such a “kind” and “generous” patron of the people.

It was long after she was driven out and branded the Blaviken Mageslayer that she would find herself holed up in a tavern at what felt like the edge of the world.

Yasha sat in the farthest, darkest corner of the place, sipping mediocre ale and nursing a lukewarm bowl of plain beef stew. It was quite a popular place, wherever it is that she was. Yasha hadn’t quite been keeping track of the names of villages and towns she passed though since the Blaviken incident; they were usually all the same, especially if they’d heard of what had occurred there.

The tavern was suffused with a warm, almost stifling air upon which a bard’s warblings floated across the din to the dark little corner where she sat, brooding. Yasha only glanced up when the music faded out and some of the members of the tavern threw bread at what looked to be a colorfully dressed lavender tiefling. She wasn’t sure why they hated his singing, exactly. She’d heard worse. Yasha was about to resume her meal and continue her brooding when the tiefling spotted her, tail waving behind them excitedly. 

Yasha gasped as something in her chest... _shifted_. 

Her feathers twitched beneath the skin of her back, and a voice she hadn’t heard in many, many years whispered softly into the center of Yasha’s very self.

 _Change is coming_ , the voice said, _you’ll need this one when that time arrives_.

Yasha muttered some colorful expletives into her stew as the tiefling tried to sneakily approach her beyond the eyes of the angry tavern patrons who were looking for the bard. She wanted to ignore him, she really did. It wasn’t any problem of hers if the overeager bard hadn’t been able to sell this admittedly uncultured audience on his performance.

And… yet. 

The tiefling managed to slink his way through the shadows, behind tavern tables and empty barrels until he popped right up next to Yasha without her notice. She startled a bit, and the lavender tiefling offered her a sheepish smile, pupilless red eyes twinkling with honest charm.

“Sorry about that,” he purred, chuckling as he slid into the seat across from hers. “It’s just… I couldn’t help but notice that you were one of the only patrons in this... “ he trailed off, waving a hand to gesture at their surroundings, “...this _fine_ establishment that did not seek to offer a very emphatic opinion on the quality of my performance this afternoon.” Yasha grunted. “Yes. Do you have a point, bard?”

“Ah, forgotten to introduce myself, have I?” The tiefling smoothed the fabric of his travel-worn jerkin beneath his brightly colored coat. “Name’s Mollymauk Tealeaf. Molly to my friends.” He leaned in closer, peering at Yasha intently before his expression lit up with delight. “And… ah! Eyes of blue and violet, hair a gradient of black to white–why, Witcher, you _must_ be the Blaviken Mageslayer!” He seemed quite pleased with himself at having recognized her.

What on earth was this tiefling on about?

Yasha had by now forgotten her ale and stew entirely and was just staring at the tiefling with increasing bewilderment.

“I… I have a name,” she said slowly after Mollymauk had finished his chattering.

“Yes, yes, I suppose with a moniker like yours, you would prefer to be called something else, wouldn’t you?” Mollymauk mused, humming softly to himself. “Well, what should I call you then? Something other than Witcher if you please, my darling, I really must have a name.”

 _My darling_. 

Hadn’t her mother called her that, many decades ago?

Yasha felt her throat tighten for the first time in a long time at the visceral memory that washed over her. “My name… my name is Yasha,” she said at last, after clearing her throat and taking a deep swig of her ale. “Yasha Nydoorin.”

Mollymauk flashed her a brilliant smile.

“Yasha. That’s a lovely name, dear. Now, do you think you could maybe help me with getting out of this town alive at some point? I’m afraid I’m a bit short on coin but I’ve got my lovely company and some good music and I’m really not _that_ useless on the road? All I’ve ever known in life is traveling and more than one bandit or two has tried to accost me thinking I was armed with only my wits and a lute.” 

He pressed his elbows into the wooden tabletop, threading his fingers together so that he could rest his chin on them to bat his eyelashes at her.

“Come on now. May I have an answer? You wouldn’t keep a tiefling… with bread in his pants waiting, would you?”

Yasha could only stare and blink at him during that whole exchange, wondering what exactly had possessed the tiefling to approach her with such a ridiculous proposition. Or perhaps the universe was to blame, for why else would something inside her keep insisting that maybe smuggling him out of here was really the best response to all this madness?

She sighed deeply, rubbing at her temples to try and massage away the headache she could already feel forming even as her lips began to form the words of her response.

“Fine, bard. If you can keep yourself alive until tomorrow, I’m leaving in the morning.”

Again, there was that cheerful grin as Mollymauk’s tail waved behind him happily. He leaned back in his seat and tilted his head to her, the gold and silver charms affixed to his horns jingling brightly with his movements. “Delightful! I promise I’ll do my best to keep up and not get in the way of your sword!” He laughed, and the rich, earnest sound seemed to ease an ache in Yasha’s soul she hadn’t realized was there.

“I think, my dear Yasha, that we are going to become _great_ friends.”

Just like that, the yearning vanished, and when Yasha set out the following morning, sitting astride Stormlord with Mollymauk at her side, she was struck with the sudden thought that, perhaps, in spite of all the things the universe had taken from her, maybe, just maybe, it too had decided to give her a little something back for her trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story of Yasha becoming the Butcher of Blaviken (or the Blaviken Mageslayer in this case) instead of Geralt is definitely something I want to write about at a later date as part of this series. It involves, of course, a sorcerer named Uko'toa, his wary apprentice Fjord, and the half-dragon princess Calianna who just happened to be born at an unfortunate time.
> 
> Geralt still falls afoul of some town somewhere else, but heck if I know how it happens. But I figured if Geralt and the other Witchers were walking about in this universe, then so would most of the major players of the series be still around in some shape or form.
> 
> But since I had originally started writing this with the intent to just have a collection of short stories and not... uh... THIS, well. I haven't the foggiest clue how the major events of this world are affected by the Mighty Nein just sort of existing in various places. It'll be fun to figure it out though, I'm sure.
> 
> Also, stay tuned for more Bard!Molly and Witcher!Yasha. That's definitely something I want more of more than anything since it was the whole reason I wrote this in the first place.

**Author's Note:**

> Like what you've read? Want to come yell with me about Critical Role or the Witcher?
> 
> I tumble [here](https://timesorceror.tumblr.com/) and tweet [here](https://twitter.com/TimeSorceror). I'm also usually hanging about Discord on the Widomauk server I mentioned, so if you're looking to yell with us about our favorite purple tief and sad hot wizard, I can hook you up. 
> 
> Love you lots, and don't forget to be awesome.


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